


They That Sow the Wind

by DreamingPagan



Series: Storm Runners [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: AU, Canon Divergence, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Father-Son Issues, Featuring Blonds With Terrible Fathers Plotting Together, Fix-It, In which there are politics and plots, James needs a blanket, M/M, Multi, Thomas has Adventures, What if fic, Wherein James suffers a bit but overall there's a lot less pain, and Miranda needs her men to stop getting themselves into these situations, and also a fair amount of fluff, no seriously Thomas and Miranda are too cute together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7675954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James McGraw goes to Nassau - and never comes home, taken captive and abandoned by his superiors as a pawn in a much larger, much deadlier game. Thomas and Miranda must find a way to rescue him while attempting to survive the machinations of the powers that be who would see them torn asunder never to meet again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unexpected Storms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeoman014](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeoman014/gifts), [shirogiku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [yeoman014](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeoman014/pseuds/yeoman014) in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



> For a prompt by yeoman014 on Pirate Prompts 2016:
> 
> For some reason, Lt McGraw stays in Nassau instead of returning to London. (Maybe he falls ill? Maybe he isn't allowed to leave? Maybe he doesn't want to leave? Maybe he is a hostage of sorts so his crew is allowed to leave?) The Hamiltons join him there. (Maybe he sends for them? Maybe they are able to go as part of their efforts to rehabilitate New Providence Island? Maybe they sense they won't be safe much longer in England and flee first? Maybe they are just slightly foolish and love James too much and go regardless of whether it's the smart choice or not?) I would like to see them building a life together in Nassau. How that unfolds will of course depend on your choice of their reasons for being there. (Do they become powerful on the island or do they live quietly, for example?) Some angst is ok, but I really want a generally happy story for the three of them with a positive ending.
> 
> Not sure if this quite fits the bill, OP, but here's hoping you like it! Shiro, I couldn't have done this without you encouraging me!

**Prologue** :

_Nassau, October 24th, 1705_

He had come ashore in the name of peace.

The irony was not lost on James McGraw as he dodged the shots fired at his back for the third time and continued running. He had wanted to pardon these people - to see them all declared lawful citizens of the British Empire, free to go about their lives, and this was his reward.

He was going to have to stop running soon. It was a fact, simple and unavoidable, and it also meant that he was completely, utterly fucked. The ache in his side and the matching one in his legs was going to force him to stop eventually, and then he was going to be overtaken and probably end up hanging from one of the Navy’s own gibbets somewhere on the beach. For the moment, though, it was a choice rather than a necessity - one that the much younger lieutenant running alongside him did not deserve to have to make. He swerved to the left, taking cover against a building, and took the time to reload his pistol, fingers sure in their task even as he felt some part of him quail at what he was about to do.

“Go,” he ordered, still in the process of carefully ramming the ball into the muzzle of the gun. The boy turned sharply to face him, a look of confusion crossing his face.

“I said go!” James barked, and saw the boy shake his head and start to draw his own pistol. James shoved him away. “I’ll hold them here. Get back to the ship and tell them to weigh anchor.”

“Sir -”

“That’s an order, Mr. Harris!”

The lad hesitated, eyes flitting between James and the shouting, cursing pirates, and James swore. He took aim at one of the men following them and fired. The sound seemed to knock Harris from whatever daze had held him, and he nodded to James.

“I’ll tell them. I’ll make them come back for you.”

“You absolutely will not!” A shot sounded, and James winced and ducked. Wood flew in splinters and the ball embedded itself in a nearby wall. There were more, he realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach - far more than he could handle. “The ship can’t stay here. There are too many ships in the bay. It’s suicide. Make Jeffries leave - hold him at gunpoint if you have to. Run!”

He turned, no longer able to devote attention to Harris, and hoped the boy had the sense to do as he was told. Shots rang out, and he leaned around the corner, returning fire. Shouts followed, and he grinned at the sound of cursing from the wounded pirate. The others, however, kept coming, and all too soon they were upon him. He drew his sword and, in the moments that followed, the world was reduced to a blur of flashing steel and blood and finally, pain. He felt the blood flowing from a cut in his side and then something hit him in the back of the head, sending fire racing through his skull and reducing his vision to white for a moment. He fell to the ground, the combined blood loss and head wound taking the strength from his legs, and saw, at the edges of his fading vision, their leader. The man loomed over him, and James gave a silent, fervent prayer that they would kill him quickly and spare his corpse any mutilation for Thomas’ and Miranda’s sakes. Someone prodded at the wound on his head, and the leader nodded.

“Bring him,” he ordered. “His friends in London will pay to have him back.”

Hands grasped his arms, and he felt unconsciousness claim him as they dragged him away.

 **Chapter One** :

 _London, December 9th, 1705_ :

“You’ll wear a hole in the floor if you keep pacing.”

“He should have been back by now. It’s been fourteen weeks, Miranda. _Where is he?_ ”

Thomas Hamilton ceased stalking across the floor in his drawing room for a moment, and his wife gave him a sympathetic look.

“You know these things can’t always be predicted. I’m sure it’s nothing more worrisome than a storm.”

“When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks; When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand; When the sun sets, who doth not look for night? Untimely storms makes men expect a dearth,” Thomas quoted. “Something is wrong. James was meant to be back two weeks ago. One week I could understand, but two?”

“It could well be three or even four if they’ve hit bad weather or lost the wind,” Peter Ashe pointed out reasonably. “Relax, Thomas. Have a drink. I’m sure we’ll hear from him soon, and in the meantime we need to discuss our next move. There are several lords to be won over, after all, and it’s best if we have everything in place when the ship returns.”

“Yes - I suppose you’re -”

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and Thomas turned as Miranda’s brow furrowed.

“Who’s that?”

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in!”

The door opened, and Mr. Davies, the butler, entered, bowing to Thomas before he spoke.

“My Lord - Admiral Hennessey has arrived. He has requested -”

“Admiral Hennessey?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well what on Earth is he doing here?”

“He would not say, my lord. Shall I show him in?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Davies.”

Davies bowed again and retreated. They waited only another moment or two before the door opened again.

“Admiral Hennessey, my lord.”

The Admiral stepped through the door, his white wig and the buttons on his coat shining in the candlelight. He bowed.

“My Lord.”

Thomas frowned.

“I am certainly pleased to see you, Admiral, but to what do we owe the pleasure?”

Hennessey’s expression did not change, and Thomas frowned, the alarm bell already tolling in the back of his mind ringing all the louder. The Admiral cleared his throat, an expression of distaste flickering across his face, and he stood straighter. 

“I am afraid there is nothing pleasant about what I must say to you, my Lord and I would say it as plainly and as swiftly as possible. New Providence Island has been overrun by pirates. They have ousted Governor Thompson and killed his wife and young son. They hold the bay and the fort guarding it.”

Thomas stared. He could feel something in his stomach twist, his insides suddenly tying themselves in knots.

“I - good God,” he murmured. “Is the governor himself -?” He did not finish the question, struck suddenly by another, infinitely more important. The island had been taken. The news had evidently reached Hennessey, which implied -

“We appreciate the news, Admiral, but where is Lieutenant McGraw?” Peter asked. “He has not, I hope, been replaced as Naval liaison?” 

Hennessey clenched his teeth, and when he spoke, his voice was tight and clipped.

“Lieutenant McGraw went ashore to reason with the men in charge of the fort upon his arrival. It appears that negotiations were - unsuccessful.” 

Thomas’ mouth had gone dry, and he stared at Hennessey, his heart suddenly in his throat.

“What are you saying?” 

“Lieutenant McGraw was killed as he attempted to withdraw. I am sorry.” 

The bottom dropped out of the world, and for a single second, his vision blurred, everything going white. There was a roaring sound in his ears akin to the crashing of the surf, blocking out all other noise, and he stumbled, his hand coming into contact with the sideboard that stood nearby, steadying himself against it as his knees attempted to give out. He blinked, his vision slowly returning to him, although the room still appeared too bright all of a sudden. He could vaguely hear the Admiral still speaking, but none of it sounded like English, and he stared, uncomprehending for a long few moments, before a single word forced its way past his suddenly numb lips.

“What?” The Admiral stopped abruptly, and an annoyed expression crossed his face.

“I said that as it would appear that your plan for the Bahama Islands is no longer viable -”

“No,” Thomas murmured, “before that. You said -” He stopped, unable to force the words past his lips, and Hennessey’s eyes scanned his face, seemingly realizing for the first time that his words might have significance to Thomas beyond the political. He drew back in something approaching surprise, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost its hard edge.

“James died a hero, defending a younger officer on his crew. He will be honored for his sacrifice. I - am sorry, my Lord.” The roaring sound had not abated, and Thomas shook his head, turning away from Hennessey. It was wrong. It was all wrong. This was not supposed to be happening - it was meant to be James standing here in his parlor, not Hennessey. It had been three damn months. When had James died? How long had he been -? His head was spinning, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to hold together long enough to speak, to think - willing his lungs to stop contracting and trying to force out the thing that was gathering within him that wanted to sob and scream and beg Hennessey to retract his words. 

“Who - who reported it? Who told you -?” His voice sounded hoarse even to his own ears, and he swallowed hard, his hands clenching against the wooden sideboard with enough force to turn his knuckles white. The pain barely registered.

“I was informed perhaps two hours ago, the moment the ship returned to port. The lieutenant who relayed the news was not present when it occurred, but he reported that Lieutenant McGraw was attacked on the beach and overwhelmed.” The Admiral’s voice cracked a little, and Thomas tried to breathe against the tightness in his chest. He was going to give in if this continued, and he could not - not yet, not now. He turned back, taking a deep breath, forcing his lungs to function, forcing himself to look at Hennessey’s face, to pretend, although from the Admiral’s highly uncomfortable bearing, he was doing a poor job of it.

“Overwhelmed? That’s what he said, precisely?”

The question was barely more than a whisper, and yet Hennessey flinched. Something passed over his face, an odd expression caught somewhere between fear and sorrow, and Thomas frowned as the older man straightened and folded his arms behind himself, standing at parade rest. He stared at a point just over Thomas’ left shoulder.

“Lieutenant McGraw is dead, my lord. I am certain of it.”

He was lying.

He could not have said what it was that informed him - something in the Admiral’s manner, perhaps, or in his voice, but the realization hit him like a cold bucket of water. Hennessey was lying - it was in every line of his body, every stiff, nervous movement of his head. And if he was lying…

James was alive. The roaring noise abated, his hearing suddenly restoring itself even as the constriction in his chest lessened. Feeling suddenly as if the world had resumed spinning, Thomas took a deep breath, purest anger coursing through him now instead of the all-consuming grief that had threatened to destroy him, and with anger came clear, cold reason. He could see the outline of the plot now, and it reeked of his father. Hennessey was an Admiral, yes, and a politician in his own right, but he was no chess master, and furthermore he was James’ mentor. Alfred Hamilton, on the other hand, was a ruthless manipulator all too likely to use Thomas’ lover as a pawn in a much greater game. Fortunately, Thomas was not a stranger to that game, nor to Alfred’s playing style.

“What was the young man’s name? The one that James saved?” he asked abruptly, and Hennessey’s eyes narrowed. Thomas continued, a hard edge creeping into his voice. “There is an Oriental philosophy that states that a life one saves is a life one is then responsible for. In James’ absence, I would see to it that the lad is take care of - provision made for his future. Perhaps I might speak to him?”

“That will be quite unnecessary, my lord -”

“All the same - I would make certain that James did not give his life in vain,” he insisted, and Hennessey faltered. He glanced away from Thomas for a moment toward Miranda and Peter, and then, in a clear, crisp tone, he answered.

“Lieutenant Harris, my Lord.” Thomas nodded.

“Thank you.” He turned away, toward his desk. “When will the funeral be held?”

“A week from today. You are planning on attending?” He nodded, silent, unwilling to trust himself to hide his rage if he spoke, and Hennessey nodded.

“Very good, my lord. I shall see myself out.” Thomas nodded again, and felt more than saw Hennessey take the few steps toward the door and stop, half in and half out of the doorway, head bent as if contemplating something. He turned back, and studied Thomas for a moment as if working out a particularly difficult puzzle.

“I did not understand, you know, what James saw in you,” he said quietly. “He came to me, singing your praises, and I took it for exaggeration or blind optimism. I do not know if I believe even now that you are the man he claimed you are, but I will say this, for James’ sake, for the sake of his - respect, for you. Abandon course before it is too late. I have spoken with the Earl, and he will stop at nothing to see you fail in your mission in Nassau. The cost of continuing may well prove to be more than you can pay.” With that, he turned and strode out of the room, the door shutting softly behind him, leaving Thomas staring after him, mouth half open, mind whirling.

“Thomas? Thomas?” It was Peter’s voice that broke through the fog, insistent and concerned. He turned to find the older man standing behind him, his hand on Thomas’ arm. Behind him, Miranda had sunk into a chair, bent forward slightly, breathing shakily, as if trying not to weep. He followed Peter’s gaze, and detachedly realized that he was still holding onto the sideboard, still white-knuckled, shaking with an anger he barely recognized.

“Thomas -”

“My father,” he said slowly, releasing the piece of furniture and flexing his hand, “is a snake.”

Peter reeled back as if slapped, and stared at Thomas with an expression of utmost confusion.

“What?”

“He’s lying.” He sounded almost calm. “The Admiral. I could see it in his face. He lied, and I can think of only one person _vile_ enough to make him do so.”

He turned, and Peter took a step back, eyes suddenly fixed on his face. He crossed to Miranda and placed a calming hand on her shoulder. His wife raised one hand to cling to his, making a valiant effort to bring herself back under control, and Peter stared.

“Thomas - I know you and James were - close. This has to come as a terrible shock, but denying the truth -”

Thomas laughed, but there was no mirth in it.

“Truth? You think there was any truth in that?” He gestured out the window as if to indicate either the Admiral’s long-departed carriage or the man himself. “James is all but a son to him. Did he seem angry? Grief-stricken?”

“He seemed like a man who had been forced to travel across town to speak with a stranger regarding the death of someone he held dear,” Peter shot back. “You are an open book, Thomas, but some men -”

“You are honestly suggesting that on the very day he found out that James was dead, _not two hours later_ , in fact, he immediately came, in person, to handle affairs of _state_? Who could possibly be so cold in the face of -”

He stopped, feeling the panic rise again, and with it, doubt. Hennessey had been lying. Had it been any other man, regarding any other matter, he would have lain coin on the notion, and yet - was it his own desperation speaking? Could he be wrong?

“I -” he started, and swallowed hard. Peter seemed to sense his uncertainty, and he leaned in closer.

“Thomas - I know this is hard, but we must be reasonable. Why on Earth would he lie?”

Thomas opened his mouth, started to speak, and felt Miranda’s hand tighten on his.

“He would not.” His wife rose from her chair, and dabbed at her eyes. “Lord Ashe - Peter - Thomas and I will need some time to process this news. If we might reconvene another day -”

Peter seemed somehow relieved, and he inclined his head toward her.

“Of course.” He turned toward Thomas. “Thomas - take some rest. I’ll see you in a few days.” He squeezed Thomas’ shoulder, dark grey eyes full of sympathy. “I am truly sorry. We shall all miss him.”

Thomas did not reply, simply stared, Miranda’s hand still tight around his own, and Ashe seemed to take it as agreement and dismissal. He turned and hurried out the door, and Thomas turned to his wife.

“Miranda -”

Miranda turned, and he stopped, words drying up in his throat. His wife’s eyes were suddenly dry, her entire countenance suddenly a picture of vigilance as she listened for the sound of Peter’s footsteps to fade away. She shook her head silently, eyes pleading with him to comply, and Thomas suddenly realized that she was shaking almost imperceptibly.

“Miranda, what -?” She shook her head again, and then swallowed hard, pressing her lips together firmly. She stood, listening, for another moment, and then she released his hand, and sank, still trembling, into the chair again. He knelt beside her, face upturned, and reached out a hand to touch her forearm.

“They want us to believe it,” she said, her voice low and urgent, hand reaching out to clutch at Thomas’s. “He wanted you to believe it. Thomas -” Her eyes suddenly met his, and abruptly he understood. They, not he. Two men, not one. A chill ran down his spine, and he scanned her face, blue eyes meeting brown.

“Peter? You think Peter would -?”

He could not finish the sentence, and Miranda simply stared at him until his horror turned to sickened understanding.

“God in Heaven,” Thomas murmured. “You’re certain? He has been our staunchest ally -”

“I think the Admiral was lying when he wished to tell the truth, and I think he had very little reason to if he truly does love James, unless there was someone in the room he knew would report back to your father.”

He sat back, struck temporarily breathless. Peter. If Miranda was right -

He replayed the conversation in his mind, and found that he could not disagree with her assessment. It made too much sense, and the very fact that it did made him shiver, weariness and sorrow and shock all hitting him at the same time. He leaned forward and blew out a half-disbelieving, half resigned huff of breath.

“Is there not one honest man in all of London?” He looked to Miranda, and she covered his hand with her own and squeezed it gently. He stood, anger coursing through him again in full force. “Peter! Of all people, that he should turn on us - Dear God, Miranda, where is the point in any of this if I cannot trust even my closest friends?” He ran one hand through his hair in agitation, pacing the room.

“These are deep waters, Thomas, and we must tread them carefully. Admiral Hennessey -”

“The Admiral can be of no use to us if they are blackmailing him or -” He stopped, a sudden, horrible thought occurring to him. “Is it possible that they have James and are holding his safety against Hennessey’s good behavior?” Miranda stood and stilled his pacing with a touch of her hands to his shoulders, running them down his chest in a soothing motion.

“We won’t know unless we learn more, and even then, there may be nothing we can do. Thomas - we must face the possibility that James is lost to us, even if he is alive. You know that your father -”

He pulled away, shaking his head.

“No. I will not leave him. I cannot. If it were me, he would -”

“He would have the sense to weigh his odds of success against the chances of failure. He would see the danger, and -”

“And what? Abandon me? Cut his losses and blithely leave me to my fate?” He laughed mirthlessly. “If you truly think James could do such a thing - that he would ever do such a thing without me directly forbidding him to come after me - then you do not know him. And since he has not forbidden me to come after _him_ , I fully intend to find him, danger or no danger.”

“Thomas -” He took her hands in his own.

“I cannot do otherwise, Miranda. It is not in me. Leave me if you must, but I cannot turn my back on James. My mind is set on this.” She stared at him a moment longer, and then breathed a sigh that was half resignation and half fond exasperation.

“Very well. If you are truly determined, then I had better help you, hadn’t I?”

He released a breath he had not realized he was holding, and smiled weakly at her.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and Miranda flashed him a half smile.

“We must start with information. We will need to speak with Lieutenant Harris, and we must do so without endangering him. We can make our plans when we are sure of the situation at hand.”

“And in the meantime, it seems I must assume that we are being observed,” Thomas added. “It is not enough, evidently, that he has taken James from us. No. Now he must also corrupt our friends and set spies to watch our every move. _Why_ must he be so - so -” He made an incoherent gesture of frustration, and then sank into a chair, elbows resting on his knees, scrubbing both hands through his hair. 

“Is there nothing in this world he will not use against me?” he asked quietly, and felt Miranda come to stand behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders as she often did when he was frustrated or upset.

“He will never have an ally in me. I swore it when we married, and I mean it as much now as I did then. We will find out what has happened to James, and if need be, we will rescue him,” she said, a quiet, firm determination in her words that was more comforting than any passioned declaration.

“I fear we’ll need to go a bit further than that,” Thomas admitted quietly. “He’s gone too far this time, Miranda. I won’t have him endangering you or James - using you like pawns whenever it pleases him to force me into obedience. I never wanted to have to move against him, but -”

“We knew this day might come,” she answered, and he nodded heavily. “Your father is not without his weaknesses - no man is. It is simply a matter of finding them.” 

Thomas raised a hand to hers, squeezing it, and smiled at her.

“I may know of one or two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas's quote is from Shakespeare's Tragedy of King Richard III.


	2. Rumblings of Thunder

_London, December 12th, 1705_

Parties, James Norrington thought, were a nuisance.

There were always far too many people, and none of them ever meant a word of what they said. And, as his father was a fleet Admiral, there were all too many of them looking at him, sizing him up, wondering if he would follow in Lawrence’s footsteps, and wondering whether he could be used to gain some kind of advantage. Then, of course, there were the women who looked to him as a potential match for their daughters and encouraged them to make his acquaintance at every occasion. That was worse, and the advances had grown bolder as he had come closer to his majority. Now, at fifteen, there was scarcely any avoiding them, and the young man found himself hiding in the most unlikely of places, attempting to win some peace and quiet.

Tonight, he was fleeing the Misses Hathaway, who had been fluttering their eyes and giving him longing glances all night. He had managed to slip away from the festivities halfway through Lady Clifton’s passable but stultifying rendition of _Voli il Tempo_ , and now found himself in the quiet hallway outside of his father’s study and its collection of books. 

Or, at least, it should have proven quiet. As he drew, closer, however, he could hear raised voices. Two men were all but shouting, their voices quite above the volume acceptable for drawing room conversation, and as James drew closer, he realized that he recognized the normally calm voice of Admiral Hennessey. The other man - James inhaled swiftly when he realized that the other half of the yelling pair was none other than his own father, angrier than James had ever heard him, his voice sharp with fury. James knelt, looking around him guiltily before looking through the keyhole.

“-abandoning one of our own to preserve his bank account! How much did he pay you, Alexander? Thirty pieces of silver?” Lawrence Norrington stood by his desk, his tall, spare frame a study in contained fury, his shoulders stiff, his grey eyes blazing. He stood opposite a red-faced Admiral Hennessey.

“What would you have me do?” Admiral Hennessey’s voice was an infuriated and indignant hiss. He leaned forward, closer to Lawrence, fierce for all that he was half a foot shorter than the other man. “Rescue James against his orders and allow him to make his accusations? See half the officers in the fleet brought up on charges?”

“I would have you do something to end his reign of tyranny over the Admiralty rather than cower and whimper like a whipped cur! Good God, man! Have you no dignity, no honor? He is all but family - your own ward, and still you -”

Hennessey slammed his hand against the desk, shaking the papers and ink laying out on it.

“Do not _lecture_ me on what I am sacrificing, Lawrence! Do you think I do this lightly?”

“I think you were all too quick to throw him to the wolves when they came baying at your door. A decent man would -”

Hennessey laughed bitterly.

“A decent man,” he sneered. “A noble ass like yourself, you mean - you, who not six months ago were extolling the virtues of gentlemen officers over men raised from the ranks, men like James, whom you now have the gall to champion as if you had been his defender all along!” 

At the door, James jumped at the sound of his name, looking once more over his shoulder, but it was clear they were speaking of someone else - someone who was apparently in a great deal of trouble. He bent to hear the conversation again, wondering uneasily if he truly wanted to know what sort of trouble.

“He may be a johnny jump-up, but his actions mark him as an honorable one - honor that I now find lacking in you, Alexander. It is curious indeed that you have managed to instill such bravery in your ward when you yourself appear to have none.” Hennessey bridled, and Lawrence stood, unyielding, grey eyes gone cold. Hennessy stared at him for a moment, hatred seething in his gaze, and when he spoke, his tone was as frigid as a Northern winter.

“Mark my words, Lawrence - one day your damned inflexible, stubborn pride will be your downfall, and the Navy’s.”

Silence fell, and when James’ father spoke again, his voice was pitched low, a furious murmur.

“Better that than to live a coward. I cannot sit back while a good man dies. That you _can_ disgusts me. Get out.”

James scrambled away from the door, searching frantically for a place to hide and settling at the very last moment for ducking behind one of the long curtains bordering the windows in the hallway. Hennessey, fortunately, did not appear to be paying much attention to anything as he stormed out, his boots clicking on the floor as he exited the hallway, much to James’ relief. He stepped out from behind the curtain, wondering if he dared enter the study now that the argument was over. 

“Sir?” The voice came from inside the office, and James started, surprised. He had thought his father and Hennessey to be alone, but now a lieutenant stood in the room with Lawrence Norrington, standing dutifully at parade rest while he waited for the Admiral to speak. 

“He’s right,” Lawrence sighed. James could see his father standing by the large window on the south side of the house, staring through it as he often did when in a quandary. “He’s right, damn him.”

“Is it true, then? What he said about half the officers in the fleet -?”

Lawrence gave a mirthless laugh.

“You’ve been aboard ships, Jeffries - I should not need to tell you the lay of the land. Even if he were lying, it would scarcely matter by the time the Earl was done. He’d have every officer that dared to disagree with him hanged for buggery and the rest so firmly in his pocket the Admiralty would be dancing to his tune long after he’s dead and gone and his sons have taken up his mantle to continue the family profession of extortion and treason. No - we cannot bring Lieutenant McGraw back to England, no matter how we may wish it, not while that - _vulture_ sits waiting to use his presence to his own ends.”

“Sir - with all due respect - I did not return to England seeking aid only to leave a fellow officer - my _friend_ \- in the hands of pirates over a matter of _politics_ , buggery or not. I can't -”

“No one said anything about leaving him there,” Lawrence said sharply. “I have no intention of dancing to any tune written by Alfred Hamilton. If I cannot rescue my lieutenant with Ashbourne in play, then I will do so when I have removed him from his perch. Get eyes on his heir - young Lord Thomas. If what Hennessey says about the man is true, he will have a vested interest in seeing Mr. McGraw rescued. If we can win him as an ally, he may even help us gain the upper hand. If not, it’s best to have an eye on him anyway - the Earl may move against him next if he continues on his present course and I won’t give the bastard the satisfaction of another victory.”

“I'm to arrange a meeting, sir?” 

Lawrence nodded.

“Yes. I will inform him of Lieutenant McGraw’s predicament and see if he may be persuaded to aid us. Do not make contact unless you are certain you will be unseen.”

“Understood, sir. If the Earl does move against his son - what are your orders?” Lawrence turned, and the look on his face was grim.

“Safeguard Lord Thomas by whatever means necessary. I will handle the details.”

The lieutenant nodded sharply.

“Sir.” He turned, and James quickly ducked behind his curtain again, holding his breath until Jeffries had passed. He released it in a rush. He should not have been there. It was obvious now. He should have turned around and left long since, because the conversation he had just heard was beyond dangerous. What his father was discussing was illegal, against both the edicts of the King and the Church, and James had wit enough to know that he wanted nothing to do with it, even if he was not certain he was either old enough or experienced enough to agree or disagree on principle. Lawrence Norrington was still in the study. If James moved quietly enough, he might, just might, be able to move out from behind the curtain and make it down the hallway before he was spotted. Or, better yet, he could come out from behind the curtain, walk a few steps away, and then -

“James.” Lawrence’s voice froze James where he stood. “Come out from behind that curtain. You are entirely too old to be hiding from the consequences of your actions.” 

He emerged, heart in his throat. 

“Yes Sir.” His voice was a croak.

“You overheard?” 

“Yes, Sir.” Lawrence nodded and motioned his son toward him. James obeyed, shaking ever so slightly.

“You understand that none of what you have heard here tonight can leave this room?” 

James nodded swiftly. 

“Yes, Sir. I -” Lawrence held up a hand. 

“Dismissed, Midshipman.” James breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Sir.” 

“And James?” 

“Yes, Sir?” 

“If I ever catch you eavesdropping on me again, I will post you to the Jamaica garrison where you can no longer pose a threat. You are no longer a child to be listening outside doors. Be glad tonight’s conversation was of such a nature that punishing you would bring more attention than I can afford.” 

James swallowed, something in his stomach clenching.

“Yes, Sir.” 

“That will be all.” 

********************************************************************  
“And you are certain that my son believed Hennessey?”

Peter Ashe swallowed. He was standing in Alfred Hamilton’s candlelit study, a drink in his hand, and not for the first time, he wondered if the drink was poisoned. If Lord Ashbourne was looking for a convenient time to be rid of him, he could think of no better. The thought made his palms sweat, nearly causing him to drop the glass, and he tugged at his collar discretely, hoping to alleviate some of the discomfort he felt.

“Yes, I am certain. He did not wish to, but - yes.” The words were a lie. He was certain of nothing of the kind, and yet he had to try. Thomas, the reckless crusader that he was, would likely never know, and yet - Peter met Alfred’s gaze and it was all he could do not to cringe. Alfred surveyed him with a jaundiced eye, the frown still settled firmly on his craggy face, his mouth turned downward in what Peter suspected was a permanent expression of disapproval.

“You do not sound convinced, Lord Ashe,” he observed sourly, and Peter felt his heart rate increase. “My son may be a righteous fool, but he is not stupid. I ask again. Must he be removed?”

Peter shook his head vehemently.

“No, Lord Ashbourne. Even if he is not convinced, his wife -”

“Do not speak to me of that Jezebel,” Alfred snorted, a disgusted expression crossing his face. He rose from his beautifully upholstered chair behind the desk and crossed the room slowly, lifting the brandy snifter and pouring himself another measure. The weather had shifted recently toward the cold and damp, as evidenced by Alfred’s pronounced limp and the stiffness in his movements. Good, Peter thought meanly. The man had caused Peter himself nothing but pain, and he deserved every bit of the returns God had seen fit to plague him with. 

“She may not be the most faithful of wives, but she sees keenly, my lord. It would be a mistake to dismiss her. I tell you -”

“She is a woman. She sees less than she imagines and understands nothing.” Alfred tossed back the drink, and then shook his head. “I will not trust this to chance, or your word. The house is to be under twenty-four hour guard from this day forth, until Thomas decides to behave appropriately for one of his station and breeding. You may go, Lord Ashe.” 

He set the drink back down on the tray with a sort of finality, and Peter took a deep breath. He wanted to leave - oh, how he wanted to be done with this conversation, but he had to try once more.

“My lord -” Peter attempted, and Alfred’s gaze darted upward, piercing him with all the intensity of a hawk watching its prey.

“It is a poor time for cold feet, Lord Ashe,” Alfred snapped. “It is far too late for regrets - or do I need to remind you of the precarious position you stand in, just now, you and your precious Abigail?” 

“No one was supposed to die,” Peter protested quietly, feebly. “My lord - surely we have done enough. Does Thomas truly merit -”

“What my son does or does not merit is no longer your concern,” Alfred snapped. “You are dismissed. Go and rule the Carolinas in peace. You’ve done your part.” He waved a hand, and Peter nodded sadly.

“As you wish,” he acquiesced. “Good evening, sir.” He turned and left the study, accompanied out of the house by a faithful and utterly silent footman.

“God help you, Thomas,” he murmured once he was out the door. “I no longer can.” He shook his head, donned his hat, and walked away toward the waiting carriage, the chill of the night seeping into his bones as he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s chapter two! Hopefully I’ve managed to get across that Lawrence Norrington is a. Kind of a hypocrite b. Genuinely in the right this time around (because even a broken clock is right twice a day) and c. a terrible father who cares about his son in a sort of abstract way but would never, ever choose him over his duty to Queen and country. 
> 
> As to our very much not friend Peter - I hate the weasel. Truly, I do, but I’ve always sort of felt sorry for him at the same time for having gotten tagged by Alfred Hamilton to do his dirty work, because he’s right - he had a young daughter and presumably a wife to think about and he quite understandably chose them over Thomas and crew in the end. I can’t say I entirely blame him, but some warning might have been nice, Peter. Also his actions in Charles Town have no excuse. None. That's the point at which I'd say he was truly beyond redemption.
> 
> Also, the operatic number that midshipman James is escaping is from the opera Giasone by Cavalli. It's sung by a nurse, Delfa, about how she's given up love in her old age - not unlike what Hennessey must be feeling right about now.


	3. The Tempest

_London, December 15th, 1705_ :

The nobility, Isaac Jeffries thought, were all shits.

There were, he thought to himself, things he should be doing. He had a ship to refit, his friend to rescue - in short, a great deal to accomplish other than standing here in the bitter cold, watching the house of a man with a thousand times more money than Isaac would ever have out of the vain hope that he would decide to clean up his own mess when confronted with it. The stupidity of it chafed at his already-frayed nerves, and he stamped his feet again, trying to force some warmth back into them. He’d warned James. Every noble was the same. Reckless, petty, self-absorbed, and vindictive, the lot of them, as Isaac himself could testify. He’d spent far too many nights listening to his mother tell him of her noble shit of a father, his own grandfather, who had never so much as acknowledged her existence, and whose only gesture toward paternal care had been to find Isaac a place in the Navy, more to be rid of him than to smooth his way in the world. 

“I told you he’d get you bloody killed,” Isaac Jeffries muttered. “James, you fool.” He rubbed his hands together, attempting to regain some small amount of feeling in them. The December air was biting, and he had been standing at one corner of the Hamilton estate for hours, unmoving, his legs and feet aching from the stationary position. 

At least he had the comfort of not being the only one. 

He had spotted the watchers two mornings past. There were at least six of them - positioned in various spots around the Hamilton estate, all male, and all with the blank faces Isaac had come to associate with the sort of professionals hired by the nobility when they wanted to keep an eye on someone. In lieu of actual knowledge, he had given them all nicknames. They seemed to be on a rotation of sorts - today it was Pasty-Face with the unfortunate taste in patterned coats, a shifty-looking sort that Isaac had dubbed Weasel, and the largest of the six, whom he did not need a name for outside of Trouble with a capital T. He had kept an eye out for more, but curiously, one entire side of the house did not seem to be under watch. It was a curious oversight, but not an inexplicable one. After all - the watchers were hired to watch one man, and Isaac had no doubt that Lord Ashbourne believed his eldest son would be easily kept in line.

He pushed one hand through his blond hair and sighed. Lord Ashbourne’s estimate appeared to have been correct. In the days since he had begun watching the house, Thomas Hamilton had barely appeared to stir. His wife, Lady Miranda, had been out and about more than once, and Isaac had noted her comings and goings but not gone so far as to follow her. This day appeared to be no different, for all that it was only half over. Lady Hamilton had left early that morning for parts unknown - visiting friends, perhaps - and had not yet returned, despite the sharp turn in the temperature that spoke of bad weather on the way. Lord Hamilton - 

Lord Hamilton had just gone out the back, dressed in a servant’s clothing. Isaac stood, suddenly more awake than he had been all morning. The other watchers did not appear to have noticed thus far, no doubt as bored as he himself had been until a moment before, and he silently prayed that they stayed where they were. Pasty-Face was currently looking the other way, but Weasel was shifting, and Trouble appeared to be asleep at his post - at least, Isaac hoped he was, because he was no more than three feet away from the exit to the estate that Lord Hamilton was making for so purposefully. He cleared the gate without incident, though, and Weasel looked on with a disinterested air. Hamilton started out at a brisk walk down the street, and Isaac followed, eyes fixed on his charge.

“What are you up to?” he murmured. He did not notice Pasty-Face turn, nor the signal he gave to Trouble and Weasel as they ghosted along silently behind him.

***********************************************  
It was raining when he set out for Lieutenant Harris’s lodgings.

It felt good to finally be getting under way with this particular part of his plans. He had wanted to rush out the door the moment he and Miranda had finished discussing their plans - to find James immediately, and remove him from harm’s way as soon as possible, but James’ life was not the only one in danger, and Thomas had agreed to wait at least a week to speak to the young man in question. He had taken every possible precaution in leaving the house, from changing his clothing to hailing a hackney coach in the street instead of taking his own personal carriage. He had taken pains, too, to disguise his aim, getting out several streets away from the lodging house and walking the distance to the nearest inn where he knew the officer would be at this time of day. He thought he spotted someone following him once, but the figure was gone when he looked again,and he continued, thinking himself perhaps overly cautious and yet unable to completely shake the feeling. He was not used to this cloak and dagger nonsense, he thought uneasily, pulling the said cloak closer about him. He did not know the streets of London, not truly, and he was less than sanguine about his ability to blend with the crowd, but he was absolutely certain that he did not dare trust any of the men he would ordinarily have employed to have this conversation. James’ life hung in the balance, and Lieutenant Harris’, too. There could be no more mistaken confidences, no more servants or old friends excepted from suspicion. He had to assume that they were alone, and act accordingly, if they were all to survive. It was a cold feeling, much like the wind that had picked up since he had left his snug manse, and Miranda along with it. He picked up his pace, unconsciously breathing a sigh of relief when he reached his destination.

The tavern was dark even now, with the light of day coming streaming in palely through the windows. The weather had blocked out most of the natural illumination, which suited Thomas’ purposes all the better. He did not want to be seen. The early hour in the evening made it all the more unlikely that he would be; it was one more reason that he had waited until just before dusk to set out. 

The lieutenant in question was sitting at a table not too far from the door, near the large open hearth that popped and crackled merrily and warmed the room. Thomas stood a moment, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light, mentally preparing himself once more for the conversation he was about to have, and then made his way toward the lieutenant's table. It was very important that things be said in a certain way and with a certain amount of haste. He had gone over the conversation in his head a thousand times, but the imagined version versus reality were likely to be two very different things.

“Lieutenant Harris?” The lad looked up, and Thomas quickly scanned his features, matching them with the description he had been given. He was a slight young man, black haired, with a narrow face, and a lankiness to his form that said he was not quite done growing yet, although it was anyone’s guess as to whether he would be tall and thin or fill out eventually and become a striking figure. The boy nodded.

“Yes, sir.” He looked as if he wanted to stand at attention, but Thomas simply sat down, avoiding the formal gesture. This one had already been in the Navy too long if he was reacting like that to someone he knew nothing about - either that, or he was cursed with a father every bit as stern as Thomas’ own, and Thomas’ heart went out to the boy at the thought. He would not wish another Alfred Hamilton on anyone. Mentally, he made a note to be sure to follow through on his promise to see to the lad’s future. 

“Who-?” Harris started, and Thomas shook his head.

“No. There’s no time for that. I understand that you were with Lieutenant McGraw in Nassau - no, don’t get up, don’t move, please. I’ve no desire to put either one of us in harm’s way.” 

The young man gulped, caught halfway out of his chair, and settled again, and Thomas felt anger rise in him at the realization that Harris was no more than seventeen - a boy, caught up in the politics of men decades older than he who should have known better than to drag him into this, himself among them, and once again he cursed his father’s machinations which had led to this set of circumstances. He took a deep breath, allowing the anger to settle. He would be about his business and then leave. It was the best thing - the only thing - that he could do to safeguard the lad, other than staying away entirely, and it was far too late for that now.

“They will be watching you, which is why this meeting must be quick and to the point, and after I am gone you must never speak of me to a soul again. Do you understand?” The boy nodded almost imperceptibly, and Thomas smiled. “Good man. I have one question, and I will ask you to spell out the answer on the table instead of nodding again. Was Lieutenant McGraw alive when you last saw him or not?” Harris sat dead still for a moment, his young face suddenly filled with apprehension, and Thomas was briefly afraid that he had sprung the whole mess on him too quickly, petrifying him such that he would choose not to answer. After a moment, though, the boy’s hand began to move, spelling out letters on the dirty table in front of him. Y-E-S. Yes.

“Is he still in Nassau?”

YES.

Thomas breathed a sigh of relief he didn’t know he’d been holding in, and closed his eyes momentarily. James was alive, and now he knew where he was. It was a start. He opened his eyes again, and saw that Harris was watching him, his pale, serious face barely turned in Thomas’s direction.

“He’s in danger,” he said, the tension in his voice giving the lie to his attempted air of unconcern. “The pirates, they -” 

Thomas shot him a warning glance, and he subsided, fidgeting in his chair, clearly fighting the urge to turn towards Thomas. 

“He saved my life,” he murmured. “You intend to help him?” He did an admirable job of keeping his voice in check, Thomas noticed. The boy would make a good officer one day, if he lived that long.

“Yes.” 

Harris sagged in relief. 

“Thank you.” 

Thomas nodded. It was time to go, now that he had his answer.

“Good day, lieutenant,” he offered, and stood. He left the tavern in a swirl of cloak and coat, and pulled his hat down as he stepped outside the door, the wind banging the door closed behind him.  
***************************************

Isaac could not have been more surprised at Lord Hamilton’s destination. He had followed him at a distance, cursing slightly when the other man boarded a carriage, and only barely managed to keep up by catching another. He had watched, shocked, as Hamilton had made his way to a tavern not too far from Jeffries’ own lodgings, and observed from the tavern window as he sat down next to a young man Jeffries recognized as his own third lieutenant. 

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered, rocking back on his heels slightly. Norrington had been right - as had James, apparently, and the thought caused a red flush of shame to travel over his face. There was only one possible reason for Lord Hamilton to be here, which meant that Isaac had badly misjudged him. He made a mental note to offer the young lord an apology at a later date, and took a quick look around him. He did not think they had been followed, but then -

Apparently it was his day for being wrong. Weasel darted away from his line of sight, but not quickly enough for him to miss the distinctive set of the man’s features, and he cursed. Weasel was running, and in front of him, he could see the larger form of Trouble. They had found him, which by extension meant they had found Lord Hamilton, and now, no doubt, they were running for their employer. He could not let them reach Lord Ashbourne with their report. He sped up - and heard the feet pounding behind him as Pasty-Face closed the trap.

He spun and ducked, just in time for a shot to bury itself in the stone wall near his head. He was running before the other man could fire another shot, disappearing to the sound of Pasty-Face cursing.

It was raining hard now, and Jeffries paused in an alleyway, heart pounding, listening for the sounds of pursuit. The rain had turned the streets to mud and slowed his flight, making it easier to track him, but it had also lowered visibility, and he was counting on the latter to shield him. They were gaining on him. He could hear three sets of footsteps now, even through the tumult of the rain and wind, and he looked around him desperately. He had been careless. This alley was a dead end - no way out except up, and no handholds. His only chance now lay in concealment, and he blessed the chance that had led him to wear a grey cloak that day. As an extra precaution, he removed his hat and threw it on the ground further up the alley, then, with a grimace, he knelt and, sticking one hand in the mud at his feet, he drew the hand back through his blond hair, muddying it and making him still harder to spot. With the sound of their shouting drawing nearer, he stood, pulled the cloak around him and flattened himself against the nearest doorway. He shivered, trying not to gag at the smell in the alley, and waited for his pursuers to arrive. 

It did not take them long to find him, or rather to find his discarded hat. Trouble looked around, seemingly baffled. Weasel came the closest to him, searching for his outline through the driving rain. His eyes scanned over the corner where Isaac huddled. He squinted, and Isaac silently blessed the fact that the rain blew sideways, forcing Weasel to squint, missing him entirely. The smaller man turned - and Isaac rose swiftly, hitting him on the head with the butt of his pistol. The other man fell without a sound, and Pasty-Face whirled and cried out, seeing his compatriot drop. Isaac’s first shot took him high in the shoulder, and he cursed and fell back, leaving only Trouble.

Who promptly turned and ran, his large form lumbering out of the alley. Pasty-Face struggled back to his feet, and Isaac cursed.

“You fucking cunt,” Pasty-Face gasped, holding his wounded shoulder. “You fucking shot me. You’re going to pay for that.” He raised his sword and darted forward, and Isaac met him, trying to force him to drop the sword. Trouble was still running, still within catching distance if Isaac could just - 

The flash of steel brought him back to the matter at hand, and he fell back, parrying Pasty-Face’s blow. The man was not, Isaac realized with a sinking sensation, an amateur. The steel in his hand was serviceable, his stance tutored - the younger son of a nobleman, perhaps, turned mercenary, or a former soldier turned to a more lucrative trade. Either way, it spelled trouble.

“I'm an officer in her Majesty’s Navy,” he said, dancing away from the next blow, his freezing fingers numb around the hilt of the sword. “You really don’t want to do this. Trust me.” 

“Nobody to report who did it if you’re dead,” came the reply. “I’ll -”

A shot rang out, and the other man stopped mid-sentence, toppling over even as blood began to bloom across his chest. Behind him, Harris stood, looking caught between determination and shock.

“Mr. Jeffries?” he asked, and Jeffries tore past him, staring down the street, where Trouble had disappeared.

“Damn!” He was gone, no sign of him anywhere in evidence. “Damn it all to hell and back!” 

“Sir - what -?” Harris’ eyes were wide as he stared at Isaac, and the older man swore again. 

“That’s torn it,” he said sourly. He turned back to Harris, who looked at him in confusion and fright. 

“Were they -?” Harris asked, and Jeffries nodded.

“Yes. Lord Ashbourne’s men. Lord Hamilton was followed. You did well, just then - probably saved my life.” Harris stood straighter.

“I saw one of them running. I was so focused on getting here because of the shots that I -”

Jeffries nodded even as he retrieved his discarded hat, brushing futilely at it and only succeeding in further ruining the poor bedraggled thing with mud. He swore again, mentally watching half his month’s salary going down the drain as he realized he would need to buy a new one.

“Yes. He’ll need to be stopped, or, failing that, Lord Hamilton will need us shortly. I’ll warn him and bring him to the Cooper’s Arms. You notify the Admiral - he’ll know what needs doing.” He jammed the hat on his head, deciding that it was better to wear it since it was already ruined than to allow the rain to keep pelting down on his head. Harris snapped to attention.

“Yes, sir!” 

“Quickly, Harris. And - thank you.” The boy nodded and took off down the street, and Jeffries turned, waving to the nearest hackney coach. 

“Albemarle Street,” he said. “As quickly as possible.”  
********************************************************************  
The weather had only gotten worse in the quarter hour he had spent in the tavern, and the sky darker. He could see the lamplighters passing up and down the streets, the lantern flames guttering in the rain that had begun to come down heavily, and he pulled his cloak closer about himself, oddly grateful for the mix of darkness and whatever mercy of the gods had offered him a return to London’s normal weather patterns, unusual in a year that had been, for the most part, remarkably dry. It was a good omen, he decided, although one that came in a strange form that left him slightly damp even with the cloak and shivering. James was alive, and now Thomas desperately needed a way to reach him before that could change. He returned to the house on Albemarle Street by much the same route he had left it, turning over ideas as he did so, and by the time he entered his study, he had the outlines of a plan.

“Success?”

Miranda’s voice sounded from the doorway, and he looked up. He smiled at the sight of the tray that she was carrying, having taken it from the maid, no doubt, in favor of delivering it herself.

“Yes. I’ve been planning our next moves.” She moved into the room, closing the door behind her, and sat down on the edge of the desk. He took a cup of steaming tea and drank it carefully, savoring the warmth as he did so.

“I’ve been out and about myself,” she said quietly. “I’ve had a chat with Lady Orford. She was very - informative, I believe." 

"Informative?" 

"Enough so that I’ve made arrangements for both of us to leave for the country in a few days’ time.”

“It's just as well,” he returned, setting his cup aside. “I spoke with Lieutenant Harris. James is still in Nassau, not here in England. We’ve both less and more time than I thought.”

“Nassau?” He nodded.

“Yes. He did not die, although the bit about him saving Harris’ life was true. He’s being held captive. They’re hoping to ransom him, so he’s safe for now, but I don’t know how much longer that will hold true, particularly if they hear nothing for too long. We must move while we still can.”

“Move?”

He took a deep breath.

“Miranda, do you trust me, trust my judgment?” She frowned.

“I believe you underestimate the evil men are capable of, but where James’ welfare is concerned, yes, I trust you. What do you intend to do?” He sat down himself, barely a foot away from her, and, after a moment, he looked straight into her eyes.

“I intend to go to Nassau to secure James’ release in person, and I’d like you to come with me.”

She stared, and he continued hurriedly.

“I know - it sounds mad, but I truly believe it is the only way. Any agent I send on my behalf would be too susceptible to bribery or outright threats, and I cannot risk James’ life by refusing to act directly on his behalf, nor can I risk our lives by giving my father more ammunition against me. I’m proposing that we leave this house - leave London altogether - and remove to Nassau. We can work toward its redemption all the better from the source of the problem. We knew we might have to leave for a time - why not do so now?”

“Thomas -”

“Think of it, Miranda. No more hiding. We could go to Nassau and build a new life - one without the Navy or any society gossips to placate -”

“How do you propose to free James? He is being held captive. These men are not -”

“They are men, Miranda. Men, who will listen to reason, or at the very least to money, and if they will not, then I will find another way, but I will not trust to the Navy’s willingness to act, with or without my father’s influence. We cannot afford to wait until -”

A knock sounded at the door, and he stopped abruptly as Miranda turned away, toward the door.

“Yes?” Her voice was entirely composed - a talent his wife possessed that he had found out about early in their marriage. She could go from arguing with him in one moment to playing the charming hostess in the next, and he had never been more grateful for her ability to dissemble than he had been in the past weeks.

The door opened, and Davies stuck his head through the door.

“Apologies for the interruption, ma’am, sir, but Lord Ashbourne’s carriage has just pulled up outside. It seemed best to inform you -”

Thomas felt his blood run cold, and he looked to Miranda.

“What?” The alarm in Miranda’s voice was plain, and Thomas could not help but feel the same.

“My lady - the Earl is here. He arrived without warning -”

“Did he seem in a good mood?”

“Difficult to say, my lord. He does seem to be in a hurry, though - he disembarked but did not dismiss his driver. He will be waiting in the parlor.”

“You must greet him.” Miranda had come closer, and now stood at his elbow. “He cannot know anything is amiss. If he suspects -”

“Then his suspicions must be allayed. We still need time,” Thomas agreed. “Miranda -”

She nodded.

“There is no need to further displease him with my presence - I know. Be careful.” 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, wrapping one arm around her and leaning in to kiss her. “I’ll be back shortly. The front parlor, Davies?” 

“Yes, my lord.” He nodded, and followed the butler out of the room.

 

********************************************************

Alfred Hamilton was waiting when Thomas arrived. 

His father had chosen to stand - never a good sign, in Thomas’ experience. He stood, observing the older Hamilton for a moment, assessing. He was angry. Thomas could tell from the set of his shoulders, the way his hands clenched about the walking stick in his hand - in a hundred different details that all spelt trouble. He had seen it far too often as a child, and the sight still sent a chill down his spine. He was no longer a child, but that only meant that Alfred would do far worse than turn him over his knee to deal out punishment. The Earl had never been an easy man, still less so as his advancing age contributed to his gout and left him irritable.

Well, there was no help for it. Once more unto the breach, and all that.

“Father,” he started. “What a surprise. What brings you to -” 

“ _Silence_.” The Earl’s voice snapped, cold as a winter wind, and Thomas stopped.

“Father?”

He knew Alfred was angry, but he had never heard such a tone in his father’s voice before. The sound of it frightened him, a cold something writhing in his stomach, sending warning signals flaring up. “Father, I -” 

“I said silence!” Alfred turned, his watery blue eyes fixing on Thomas. “You were seen today speaking with Lieutenant Harris of the Venture. Do you deny it?” 

“Well I can hardly confirm or deny it if you insist on silence,” Thomas started to point out.

“Now is not the time for your insolence,” Alfred warned, and Thomas frowned.

“No, I don’t,” he started, and Alfred nodded.

“Very well,” he said crisply, cutting Thomas off. “I had hoped we could avoid this - that with your sodomite lover gone, you would return to reason, but clearly you are even more insensible to reality now than you were when last we spoke. You leave me no choice.” The Earl gestured, and Thomas whirled, realizing too late that two of his father’s men had moved to stand behind him. They grabbed hold of his arms, hands like vices on his biceps, and he struggled, the warning bells that had been ringing faintly until now fairly deafening.

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, trying futilely to dislodge their hands. He looked back to his father, who stood with a look of steely disapproval on his face that caused Thomas’ heart to skip a few beats. “Father -” he started.

“These men will escort you to a place where you may see the error of your ways. We will speak again when I am told that you have learned how to behave appropriately. Take him.” Alfred turned. The hands around Thomas’ arms tightened, and he thrashed.

“Get your hands off me!” He could feel panic lancing through his chest as they began to drag him backward, his breath coming short. This was actually happening. They thought they were going to get away from this unscathed, as if he were some helpless fop without the slightest idea of how to defend himself - that he was going to go quietly, of all things, as if James were not in mortal danger even now with only Thomas to count on for salvation. The thought sent anger lancing through him, and with a grunt, he thrust his head backwards and felt one of the brutes’ noses break. One set of hands loosened, and he twisted away even as the second set of hands reached for him again. He whirled, now facing the two men, and saw that one of them was holding his nose, blood streaming down his face. He grinned. That would teach them.

“Bastard!” Broken-Nose spat. 

“I assure you I am quite legitimate,” Thomas quipped over his shoulder, turning back to face his father, pulling at his waistcoat to adjust it. “Father,” he enjoined, “be reasonable. You cannot possibly mean to -”

“There is nothing left to discuss. You will obey me, whether by choice or by force.” Alfred’s voice rankled, the cold condescension in it furthering the unfamiliar, burning anger that was by now running through Thomas’ veins. The old bastard had come here, to his home, to what? To take Thomas in hand and force him to compliance? The two hirelings stepped closer, wary now, and Thomas took the opportunity to step closer to Alfred.

“Obey you?” he asked incredulously. “How, exactly? By leaving James to die? Is that how you would have me obey you? By turning my back on all that is good in my life? By being miserable like you?” He laughed, a mirthless, half hysterical sound. “You would see me locked away - where? Go on! Tell me! Tell me what you think you can do to make me obey your every whim!”

He was yelling now, closer to his father than he had ever been in his life, his face barely a foot away from the older man’s. His heart was pounding wildly, panic setting in properly now, but he did not care. For the first time in his life, he did not give a single damn what the Earl thought of him, and the freedom of it drowned out the fear, leaving only burning anger in its wake.

“What are you planning on telling the world when they wonder why I’ve disappeared? Or do you think I’ll agree to cover your tracks for you, keep writing agreeable letters to my acquaintances to hide what you’ve done?” He was breathing hard by now, his hands clenched at his sides, and Alfred stood, unmoving, eyes as cold and indifferent as if he had been on his way to tea with a particularly tedious business associate. 

“We will speak again when you have come to your senses,” he answered, and Thomas felt fear lance through him again, piercing even through the anger as the two lackeys took hold of his arms again, holding firm even as he fought to free himself. The Earl did not respond to his son’s curses as he walked out of the room - did not so much as look at his heir as Thomas was dragged out of the house toward the waiting carriages. Alfred climbed into one of them, settling himself for all the world as if his eldest child were not being manhandled behind him, and Thomas kicked viciously, now truly soaked through in the downpour, water running down his face unregistered in the face of the fear coursing through him. 

“Thomas? _THOMAS_!” Miranda’s frantic voice sounded from the doorway, and Alfred sneered.

“Tell the whore she has until midnight to vacate this house,” he ordered, and one of the lackeys nodded.

“Aye, my lord.” 

Thomas cursed again, true fear seizing him at the mention of Miranda. He could hear her crying and the sounds of struggle behind him, and he twisted, trying to go to her.

“You keep your foul hands off of her - don’t go anywhere near her!” He struggled, trying desperately to win his way free, and got a whiff of something sharp and chemical. He realized what they were about to do seconds before the laudanum-soaked cloth landed over his face. “No - _don’t_ -!” He bit the one holding the cloth, and heard swearing.

“Just hit him and let’s be done.” He twisted, kicked backward - and felt something hard connect with the back of his head. He was unconscious before they closed the door of the carriage behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've all commented so much that you've earned... a pre-weekend cliffhanger!


	4. The Eye of the Storm

His head throbbed.

It was the first sensation that struck Thomas when he came to, and for a moment it was the only one he could focus on. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples, drowning out thought and reason. He swallowed against the taste of blood in his mouth; he had to have bitten his tongue when they hit him, he realized. He screwed his eyes shut, opening them again when it became obvious that the headache was not going to abate, and looked around himself.

He was in a carriage. The wheels bumped along on the cobblestones under him, and he held back a groan as the throbbing in his head increased with each bump. He was lying on his side on the seat, and he was alarmed to discover that he was bound hand and foot, with his arms tied behind his back and his feet tied together, shivering like mad from the cold and the wetness of his clothing. The rain seemed to have stopped for the moment, though, or else it was coming down much more softly, as he could not hear it pounding on the roof of the carriage. He sat up as best he could, struggling to raise his upper body and right himself. The ache in his head abated somewhat at the change in position, and he blinked and took a deep breath, willing himself not to throw up. 

This - was bad. The fact was startlingly obvious, but through the fog in his head, it was just about the only conscious thought that he could paste together. This was Bad, and likely about to get worse. He needed to think - preferably about something other than the pain in his head and the tingling in his fingers from the tightness of the ropes and the crushing despair that was slowly seeping through his consciousness at the sheer hopelessness of the situation. He needed to think, and more importantly than that, he needed to escape, and that was not going to be accomplished by feeling sorry for himself. A voice that sounded suspiciously like James reminded him that it was also not going to be accomplished by indulging in aimless babbling or thinking for too awfully long. Action was called for, and quickly. He took another deep breath, and forced himself to look around the carriage, squinting in the darkness. He needed to free his hands - no. His feet. If he could get out of the carriage, he could run, but to do that he needed to be able to do something other than hop along farcically with the driver able to stroll along and catch him at leisure. He gave an ill-advised snort at the mental image, and winced, longing to raise a hand to his head and massage his temples in an effort to relieve the pain. Instead, he gave an experimental tug on the ropes that bound him and found them to be depressingly tight.

“Damn.” He would have to cut the ropes, but on what? He stared at the plush seats, barren of anything resembling so much as a sharp corner, and felt panic start to flutter in his chest. He was trapped. He was on his way to God-knew-where, and there was not a damned thing he could do about it and James still needed him and Miranda was -

The carriage rattled to a stop, and he pitched forward, only barely keeping from tumbling off the seat onto the floor. Footsteps approached, and the door opened with a creak, to reveal the driver. He was blond - or at least Thomas thought he might have been, although he appeared to have mud streaked through his hair. He was also rapidly stripping off his cloak to reveal a Navy uniform beneath. Thomas stared, uncomprehending.

“Lord Hamilton - easy, sir. You’re safe.” The officer’s face was filled with concern. “Can you hear me, sir? You’re out of danger.”

“You’re not one of my father’s men,” he said stupidly, and the officer flashed him a grin.

“No, sir. Lieutenant Isaac Jeffries of the Venture at your service.”

“Oh thank God,” Thomas said, feeling relief wash over him. The tension bled out of his shoulders, and he tried to raise his hands to run them through his hair and abruptly remembered that they were still tied. 

“Are you alright?” 

“I will be if you’ll cut these bloody ropes,” Thomas answered. He turned as best he could, and Jeffries swore, seeing the bonds that held his arms immobile.

“Idiotic whoresons - your pardon, sir. They’ve tied these entirely too tight. Good thing they’re not sailors or I’d never get you free of them. Hold still, and brace yourself - this might hurt a bit.” He could feel tugging, followed by the sound of rope snapping as Jeffries gave up the ghost and simply solved the problem with a knife. The bonds loosened abruptly, sending blood rushing back into his hands and he flexed them with a grimace, rubbing at the raw, red marks left behind. Jeffries knelt and cut the ropes binding his feet as well, and Thomas rose and exited the carriage on shaky legs. He stood in the cold, barely feeling it, one hand holding him up as he leaned against the carriage.

“Lord Hamilton?” Jeffries sounded concerned. He took a step forward, wrapping his cloak around Thomas to ease his shivering, but Thomas could not bring himself to answer. It had all happened so suddenly. Not twenty minutes ago, he had been standing in his study with Miranda, and now - The urge to be sick rose again at the thought of his father’s face and the disdain on it as he condemned his own son, and he fought against it, swallowing and closing his eyes for a moment. He was ruined - his plans utterly beyond salvage and now - 

Miranda must be worried beyond all belief - was possibly still in danger. He turned to Jeffries, who was watching him, obviously concerned.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“We’re about ten minutes away from your townhouse, sir. I apologize for the deception, but there were too many of them to take on alone. Discretion seemed the better part of valor, if you take my meaning.”

“It’s quite alright, Lieutenant. I’m grateful you turned up at all. How did you know?”

“I think I’d best explain when we’re away from here,” Jeffries answered, looking nervously down the street. “It won’t take long for the Earl to learn that his men have been waylaid, and I’ve orders to see you safely away before that happens. Shall we?”

He gestured to the waiting carriage, and Thomas nodded.

“Yes. I need to go back - my wife is -”

“She was unharmed, when last I saw her,” Jeffries supplied, and Thomas breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank God. She’ll be worried sick by now. Lieutenant -”

“Understood, sir. Climb aboard - I’ll take you to her.”

The house was dark by the time they arrived. Night had fallen early, and lanterns had been lit in the streets. The sound of the horse’s hooves traveling across the muddy street was the only one to be heard - strangely loud against the fog that was now setting in after the rain. It made Thomas uneasy, and he ran rather than walked the distance from the gate to the front door, opening it hurriedly and with a bang. Someone had lit candles - Davies, perhaps, or a maid not currently to be found. In fact, there were no servants present, either at the door or in the front hall, and the lack made the house seem somehow abandoned.

“Miranda? Miranda?” His voice echoed around the room, resounding off the marble tile floors and bouncing off the wood. He had just begun to fear that his wife had left or been taken as well when the door to the drawing room opened, and Miranda, her eyes red-rimmed, her hair coming out of its arrangement in places, appeared.

“Thomas?” Her voice sounded tear-clogged, and her shaking hand gave evidence of her grief. Thomas hurried to her and swept her into a hug, not caring one whit that Jeffries stood behind him, unmindful even of his wet clothing in his haste. He breathed in her scent, allowing himself a moment of relief at finding her there and unharmed.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and she nodded, clinging to him, her hands digging almost painfully into his back as if he might disappear if she loosened her grip. “I’m here. We’re safe,” he murmured, one hand rubbing comforting circles on her back. She said nothing, only embraced him tighter, a low, half-muffled sob escaping her, and they stood for a moment, taking comfort in each other’s presence. After a moment, Jeffries cleared his throat, and they broke apart reluctantly, hands touching each other’s faces before dropping again. Thomas turned.

“Miranda, this is Lieutenant Jeffries. If I’m not much mistaken, he saved my life just a few moments ago. Lieutenant?”

Jeffries looked vaguely embarrassed. He had left his hat on, no doubt to hide his mud-streaked hair, and now seemed torn between minding his manners and preserving his dignity, his hand halfway to the brim of the hat, which was turned the wrong way ‘round, no doubt to hide more mud. Miranda’s lips turned upward in a wan smile as she regarded him, and Jeffries cleared his throat.

“I might not go quite that far, sir.”

“I would,” Thomas answered seriously. 

“Regardless - I am grateful to you, Lieutenant,” Miranda answered, trying with one hand to rescue her somewhat bedraggled coif and failing, reminded perhaps of the state of her hair by the plight of Jeffries’. She lowered her hand after only a moment, seeming to realize that there was little point without the aid of her lady’s maid and a mirror. “Thomas - I’ve been given until midnight to vacate this house. Your father’s men will be returning, and when they do -”

“We will be well away by then,” Thomas answered firmly. “Mr. Jeffries - I believe it is time you told us who sent you tonight.” The lieutenant nodded respectfully and straightened, dilemma forgotten. 

“My lord - Admiral Norrington sends his regards and respectfully suggests that you get yourself and your wife out of England, sir, before you no longer have the option. He seemed to think you were involved in a plan to rescue Lieutenant McGraw and might need some help.”

“Admiral _Norrington_?” He could not help the incredulity that crept into his voice, and Miranda gave him a questioning glance.

“The Admiral has long held certain - opinions, about men such as James being raised from the ranks and given an officer’s commission. He also has had certain reservations regarding my plan to pardon the pirates of Nassau. He would not have been my first guess as to the identity of our savior tonight.” He turned back to Jeffries, who shifted, his hands clasping behind his back as if standing at parade rest.

“I made my report to Admiral Hennessey when we first arrived in port, expecting him to raise forces to deal with the pirate problem in Nassau one way or the other and rescue Lieutenant McGraw. At the time he seemed concerned for James’ welfare. After he met with your lord father though -” The naval officer shook his head. “I’ve served with James for ten years - since we were midshipmen. He’s a good friend. I don’t care what Lord Ashbourne thinks of him, I can’t leave him there. When I heard that Hennessey had decided not to act, I went to Admiral Norrington. It is well known that he and Admiral Hennessey do not agree on many points, and I thought -”

“That he might aid you purely to spite Hennessey, regardless of his feelings on James. And quite rightly, it would seem. Well done.”

The younger man’s mouth curled upward in a half-smile.

“Thank you, sir. The Admiral asked me to look out for you. He thought something like this might be in the offing. I got here shortly after Lord Ashbourne did tonight. The rest, you know.”

“All except how you managed to waylay one driver and not the other. They were in plain sight of one another.”

Jeffries shrugged. 

“I got lucky. For a moment, I thought I was going to have to take my chances stowing away aboard the second carriage, but the driver got off to -” He stopped, with a glance at Miranda, and continued, “Well. He left the carriage for a moment, and I took the opportunity to knock him out and take his place.” 

“Thank you,” Thomas said sincerely. “I don’t know where I would be right now if you hadn’t intervened, but I suspect my father didn’t have a holiday in the country planned.”

“Probably not. Speaking of which - we really should be going. I’m to bring you to the Admiral. He’s waiting at the Cooper’s Arms.”

Thomas nodded.

“We’ll need a few moments. I need to change into dry clothing -” 

“Yes,” Miranda said, looking him up and down. “My God, Thomas, you look as though you’ve gone swimming in the Thames.”

“Not quite smelly enough for that, I hope. I think I probably understand how Noah felt, though,” he admitted, and she laughed.

“Lieutenant - the servants are upstairs packing my things. If you would be so kind as to ask them to hurry? And ask them to pack Thomas’ things as well? They will be in the west wing of the house. Ask Mathilde to find you dry things - or at least something to dry off with.” Jeffries nodded.

“Of course, ma’am.” He bowed, and exited the room. Thomas watched him go, feeling suddenly dizzy, and lowered himself down onto the chaise longue slowly, head swimming.

“Thomas -” Miranda started, and cut off, seeing the grey hue in her husband’s face. 

“I thought we would have longer than this,” he murmured, holding a hand to his head. She sat at his side, brown eyes full of concern.

“You’re hurt,” she observed. “Don’t deny it. Where is it?”

He sighed, and turned, gesturing to the back of his head.

“James would be proud,” he said. “I gave them a bit more trouble than they were bargaining for. They knocked me out.” He felt Miranda’s fingers brush over the hair and then begin to gently probe the skin beneath, until she reached the source of the ache.

“Ah!” He gave a low hiss, and she withdrew, examining her fingers as she did so.

“You have a nasty bump, but there’s no blood,” she reported. “And James would be appalled at you putting yourself in danger. And proud,” she said, softening the blow with a kiss to his brow.

“It feels like a great goose egg on the back of my head,” he confessed. “I - “ He gave a quick, shaky laugh. “Dear God, Miranda, I’ve never been so frightened in all my life.” She closed her eyes, and brought his hand up to her lips to kiss the back of it.

“I thought I had lost you,” she murmured. “They took you away, and I couldn’t do anything to stop them, and I thought - this is it. I’ve lost them both. And then you came back.” She swallowed hard, tears forming, and she blinked them away, even as Thomas placed one arm around her shoulders, one hand rubbing up and down her left arm to comfort her. “I should have Alfred’s head for what he’s put us through.” 

Thomas laughed.

“My wife, the barbarian,” he murmured, and Miranda smiled. “You haven’t lost either of us yet,” Thomas said more seriously. “Miranda - I’m sorry. I had meant to go to Nassau, but not like this. I -” Pain spiked in his head again, and he winced. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Perhaps it’s better this way,” she said. “I admit, more time to get used to the idea might have been nice, but - well. I’ve never been fond of change - not when it is not of my own design. This way, we’ll have a clean break. No looking back.” She stood, smoothing her skirts as she did so. “Come,” she said. “You’ll catch your death if you don’t change soon.”

She escorted him to a guest bedroom, disappearing for a moment herself to find him some dry clothing, and returned moments later, her hair pinned back in place. He changed in silence, and moved carefully back to the drawing room, Miranda supporting him as he did so to combat the lingering dizziness. Half an hour later, there was a knock at the door. 

“Come in,” Thomas called, and Jeffries turned the knob and entered.

“Your bags are ready to go and being loaded onto the carriage as we speak. The rest will be sent along on the next available ship. Your head maid is - quite fierce,” he said, seemingly bemused, and Thomas noticed that someone had taken the time to brush the mud out of his hair and do something with his poor bedraggled hat and cloak. He smiled.

“Yes, Mathilde is frighteningly efficient,” he said. He stood, wincing again as his aching head protested the motion.

“My lord?” Thomas waved him off.

“I’m alright,” he insisted. “We should be off. We don’t want to keep Admiral Norrington waiting.” He looked around the drawing room. The room was - well, it was a summation of everything they were leaving behind in one room, really - all the things he knew he quite literally could not afford to take with him, and suddenly the magnitude of what he was about to do hit him. The clock in the corner chimed the hour, and he started, staring at the timepiece. An hour. A single hour had passed since he had stood in this very room, still the heir to one of the most powerful men in England. In the space of one hour, he had gone from being a member of the peerage to being a fugitive, on the run from his father and every judge in the land who would have seen him hung for the simple crime of loving the wrong person. There was irony in that, he thought distantly. He had sought to pardon the criminals of Nassau and instead become one himself.

“Thomas?” Miranda’s voice reached him through his musings, and he turned. “I’ll miss it too,” she said, and he gave her a tight smile.

“It’s not too late to be rid of me, you know,” he said, the lightness of his tone masking the very real fear that she would agree. “You have family that would take you in. Your sister would -”

“Thomas,” she interrupted him. “Look at me.” He obeyed her, meeting her brown eyes reluctantly. “I have loved our life here,” she said quietly. “I don’t deny I shall miss it, but there are not enough society parties or salons or handsome young men in the world to replace you, or James. I would rather spend my life with you anywhere you choose than live a hundred years without either of you. I am not abandoning you. Not now. Not ever, not unless I am left with absolutely no alternative that does not end in death for one or both of you. Do you understand me?” 

“Yes,” he answered hoarsely. “I - Yes.” 

She nodded.

“Whatever we do, we do together.” She gripped the front of his coat and pulled him closer, kissing him lightly before letting him go. “Now,” she said. “We should be on our way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your fun fact for the chapter is this:
> 
> London carriages typically had tin installed in their windows to prevent splashing from the road onto the person riding. Since this was your typical hackney carriage, there would have been none of the nice but no doubt hard to clean curtains you see on the Hamiltons' carriage in the show.
> 
> Comments are loved!


	5. Fog and Mirrors

Admiral Norrington was waiting for them when they arrived at the Cooper’s Arms, sequestered in a private room, sitting at a desk with a look of forced calm on his narrow face. He stood upon seeing them, relief in his eyes, and he came halfway around the desk to greet them. He stood nearly as tall as Thomas, Miranda noticed - an unusual trait in a naval man from what she had seen.

“Lord Hamilton. Lady Hamilton. I trust you are unharmed?” The Admiral’s voice was deeper than she might have expected, and gravely serious. She was grateful to find no hint of insincerity in it, although after the night she had had she was perfectly willing to doubt her own perceptions. What was the saying? Any port in a storm? Even if that port was most likely swarming with pirates, or worse - noblemen.

“Nothing a stiff drink and a night’s rest won’t cure,” Thomas assured him. “I understand I have you to thank for my rescue in addition to Mr. Jeffries here.”

“Yes,” Norrington agreed, sitting back down. “I had hoped to contact you, but it seems you’ve divined what I was going to tell you on your own, and the fact that you are here, having this conversation, tells me you intend to act on that information. Tell me - what are you planning to do?” The Admiral’s manner was - direct, to say the least. That much was a relief, but Miranda had no intention of taking him at face value.

“What do you imagine?” Miranda asked. She was watching the Admiral carefully now, suspicious. The man had saved their lives, yes, but to what end? The Admiral quirked an eyebrow at her, seeming to recognize her wariness.

“I assume,” he said cautiously, “that you intend to go to Nassau to find Mr. McGraw.” 

“You object?” Miranda asked, and to her surprise, Norrington shook his head.

“Quite the opposite.” Miranda raised both eyebrows, and the Admiral gave her a tight smile. “I have spoken with Mr. Harris. He has told me of the Lieutenant’s actions on the beach. He estimates that but for Mr. McGraw’s actions, we would be missing not a single lieutenant but an entire ship and her crew. I am conscious that my previous estimation of Lieutenant McGraw’s worth may have been overhasty, and I cannot help but feel that he is owed better by way of apology than an eulogy, however eloquent.” 

“That’s very noble of you, Admiral.” Her husband sounded surprised, and Norrington nodded his acknowledgment of the compliment 

“We are not monsters, my lord, though some of us seem determined to prove otherwise.” 

“You are prepared to aid us, then?” Thomas sat forward in his chair, his hands now resting in front of him on a table, and Norrington opened his mouth to answer. 

“I -”

There was a brief knock on the door, and Norrington looked to Jeffries, who crossed the room to open it no more than two inches. He listened intently for a moment, and then drew his head back and closed the door again.

“We were speaking of monsters.” His expression was grim as he looked to Thomas. “Lord Ashbourne has discovered that you've fled. His men are combing the streets for you. They've been given orders to take you to Bethlem Royal Hospital as a lunatic.”

Miranda felt the air leave her lungs abruptly and she gasped, feeling as if someone had struck her. Thomas seemed to be feeling the same, blue eyes fixed on Jeffries with startled fear written plain on his face. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, seemingly struck dumb, and, without thinking, Miranda reached a hand out to grip his, drawing it toward her and squeezing as much to comfort him as to be comforted herself. Silence rang through the room for a moment as they all took in the terrible import of Jeffries’ news, and Miranda swallowed hard, reaching desperately for her shaken, abused composure.

“ _Bethlem?_ ” Her voice shook. It had been years since anything of the kind had happened, but now, she found herself only just barely in control, her voice wobbling like a teacup in the hand of an eighty-year-old grandmother. Fear coursed through her, and she tightened her grip on Thomas’ hand as if by uttering the name of the place she risked him being taken from her once more. Bethlem. The very name sent shivers down her spine, and she had to take a deep breath, almost a gasp, to tamp down the sudden fury that welled up in her. Bethlem. They intended to commit him - to lock him away where he could never cause trouble for anyone ever again. To silence him for good, as if - as if- 

It was not to be borne. The thought of her Thomas in that foul place - Thomas squeezed her hand back weakly, his hands trembling, face gone bone-white, and suddenly she found herself acutely aware of just how close she had come to losing him. 

“Thomas -” She murmured.

“It’s alright,” he said, his voice shaking nearly as badly as her own. “It’s -” He took a shuddering breath, a shudder passing down his spine. 

“God,” he choked. “A lunatic.” He passed a shaking hand over his face, and let it drop back down to his lap, taking hold of Miranda’s hands once again, a look of bewildered hurt left behind in its wake. 

"How?” His voice was a croak, suddenly ragged with emotion. “On what grounds can he -?” Miranda shook her head, words failing her for perhaps the first time. 

“They’ll be saying that you were overwhelmed with grief for your friend - that you are a danger to yourself and others,” Norrington said, his voice tight. “Your departure was fortunately timed, my lord. Lord Hamilton?”

Thomas had sunk down further into the chair, his hands shaking violently now, and he pulled them away from Miranda and scrubbed one of them through his hair agitatedly. He got up to pace, looking out the window, and then turned back.

“Dear God.” The utter astonishment in his voice mixed with growing horror, and he gripped the window frame even as he ran a hand through his hair again. “Dear _God_. I knew - but I never thought - How _could_ he?” He turned back. “I know I’ve displeased him,” he said. “But damn it, he said to fix Nassau. I am in the process of trying to build something different - something better, and he -” He stopped, gesturing helplessly with one hand, and shook his head, staring at the floor now. “What in God’s name have I ever done to deserve this?” he murmured, his voice gone quiet, and Miranda rose and went to his side, gently catching the hand that was savaging his hair and intertwining his fingers with hers.

“Thomas - please,” she said, and he turned his gaze to her, suddenly lost.

“Do I seem mad to you?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“ _No_ ,” she answered emphatically, and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. 

“Here - take a drink of this,” Norrington offered. Thomas turned to him, surprised, and he held out a glass, the strong whiskey in the bottom of it sloshing slightly with the movement. Thomas nodded, took the drink, and tossed it back in one motion. Seconds later, he was coughing and staring at the glass as if it were personally responsible for the night he had had. He looked to Norrington.

“God,” he choked, “what in the world is that?” 

“Something I caught the men making aboard ship several years back. I’ve never quite been brave enough to drink it, but it’s come in useful a few times.” The Admiral smiled, and retreated, glass and bottle in hand, and Thomas took a deep, steadying breath. 

“I believe I mentioned a stiff drink earlier. That was most definitely it. Possibly for the foreseeable future,” he said, still coughing. “Jesus.” 

“Well, you’re still sane enough to recognize turpentine when you taste it,” Norrington said wryly. He gave Miranda an inquiring look and she shook her head, slowly regaining her own sense of calm as Thomas came back to some semblance of equilibrium. He nodded to Norrington gratefully. 

“Thank you,” he acknowledged. “I needed to hear that.” 

He and Miranda moved back to sit at the table once again, their fingers still interlaced, Thomas’ thumb occasionally stroking across Miranda’s knuckles as if to prove to himself that she was still there.

“It would seem we would be best advised to leave, and quickly,” he said, sounding more like himself now. “I had hoped to have at least a day or two to settle my affairs, but it would seem it’s not to be. We’ll need a ship -”

“One is waiting at anchor for you. It leaves within the hour.”

Thomas stared, freshly taken aback. 

“Forgive me my haste, my Lord,” Norrington said softly, “but it seemed best. Your father is -” 

“I know,” Thomas cut him off. “I know what he is. You’re right, of course. But -”

“I dared not wait,” Norrington said. “Once he made his move - I have seen how fast he can turn allies to enemies.”

“You don’t trust your own men,” Miranda observed, and Norrington shook his head. 

“No. I cannot know which are in his pocket, or Hennessey’s.”

“I take it the ship we are to board is not English, then?” Thomas asked, and Norrington gave him a brief, grim smile.

“No. You will be headed to Nassau, so it seemed prudent to engage a ship that already makes berth there. Don’t ask any questions about their cargo, and there won’t be any problems.” 

“A pirate ship?” 

“Smugglers, appropriately enough.”

“You seem to have this all well in hand,” Miranda said. Against her will, she approved. Norrington had thought of everything, it seemed. “And the price?” 

Norrington gave her a startled look, and she smiled tightly. 

“Nothing in London comes without cost,” she said, and Norrington nodded. 

“Indeed, although in this particular instance I believe we stand united in our goals, Lady Hamilton, so the cost should not be too onerous to either of you. Put bluntly, I need your help.”

“With?” Thomas asked, and Norrington took a deep breath.

“I intend to remove your father from power by any means possible. His stranglehold on the Navy -”

Thomas held up a hand.

“There is no need to convince me, Admiral. After tonight’s events -” He shook his head. “He cannot be allowed to continue. I’ve known it for some time now.” 

Norrington breathed a sigh of relief, and relaxed a fraction.

“He stands in control of much of Parliament, but I believe that with the right leverage, we may yet be able to shift him. The question is -” 

“The question is how to remove him without collapsing half the power structure of the British Empire in the process,” Miranda filled in. “We’ve been pondering the same issue for some time. There is -”

“Then you know of something we might use against him?” Norrington interrupted, and Miranda nodded. 

“We do,” Thomas agreed, and Norrington raised an eyebrow. Thomas sighed.

“My father,” he began, “has never been an easy man to get along with. We’ve been at odds for quite some time, but not to this degree. I confess, I have underestimated him precisely because he has not always been so inflexible or so frightened of scandal. He has changed over the past several years, and I think I may have uncovered the reason.” 

“Oh?” 

Thomas nodded.

“My father,” he continued, “came to the House of Lords when our current Queen’s uncle, Charles II, was still on the throne. He supported the accession of the duke of York to the throne and stood by him throughout his reign. What I did not realize was how deep that support went. When James Stewart fled England, it appears that my father continued to fund him, despite Mary’s accession to the throne. In fact, he -”

Norrington held up a hand, his face gone suddenly completely white.

“You’re not saying -” Thomas nodded grimly.

“I am. My father is or was a Jacobite. More than that, I believe that he may have been at least partially responsible for the Barclay plot to assassinate the King ten years ago.” 

Dead silence descended upon the office. Norrington slowly sat, his hand shaking on the chair arm.

“Do you have proof?” he asked heavily.

“Very little beyond what I have managed to tease out of the Earl of Orford’s wife and from one of the servants who works for the duke of Marlborough,” Miranda answered. Norrington gaped.

“You can’t mean -!”

“I can,” Miranda assured him. “You remember the accusations made by John Fenwick.”

“Marlborough, Shrewsbury, Orford, and Godolphin were all named,” Norrington said, nodding. “But Lord Ashbourne-”

“Was not named, but not because he wasn’t involved,” Thomas said heavily. “I regret to say that I have found some indications that my father was in contact with Lord Godolphin and Shrewsbury in particular during the relevant period by paging through his account books. I have no doubt that my father will have burned any correspondence from that time, but he would never have set fire to anything concerning his money, and I would lay good coin that the others will prove to be no different. If you’re looking for a weak point in his armor, this may be the only one. It is all I can give you - I’m sorry it isn’t more.” 

Norrington shook his head. 

“It will have to do,” he said heavily. “God Almighty -”

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to tread lightly, Admiral,” Thomas said. 

“No - you do not. Thank you, Lord Hamilton.”

“I think it had best just be Thomas from here on out, don’t you?”

“Yes. And I believe you should also be on your way. The ship leaves within the next half hour. We must ensure that you are on it.” 

“One last thing. Lieutenant Harris. I’m afraid I may have put him in danger earlier today -”

“It’s already been taken care of, my lord. The lad will be transferred to a different ship and posted somewhere I’m certain he won’t encounter any trouble - away from London, in any event. He may not thank me for it now, but he might when he’s still alive a few years from now and Lord Ashbourne is, God willing, no longer a threat.” 

Thomas stood, steadying himself against the table and wincing, one hand going to his evidently still-sore head. He made a rueful gesture, and then extended one hand to Norrington, who took it in a solemn, firm grip.

“I cannot possibly thank you enough for what you have done for Miranda and I tonight,” he said. “I wish you the best of luck, Admiral. You will need it.”

“May we one day meet again under better circumstances,” Norrington answered, allowing his hand to drop to his side again. “Jeffries will take you to the quay -”

“With all due respect, Admiral - I would like to accompany Lord and Lady Hamilton to Nassau,” Jeffries interjected, and Norrington turned to look at him, clearly startled. “They'll need a guard and perhaps someone capable of fighting, depending on the situation on New Providence, and I would prefer to see to James’ safety myself.”

“Jeffries - you know I cannot allow you to -”

“You can't send a Navy officer,” Jeffries agreed. “You won’t be. I'm resigning my commission, effective immediately.” Norrington opened his mouth to argue, and Miranda, seeing the expression on the junior officer’s face, cut him off.

“The Admiral,” she said pointedly, “will need a helping hand here, will you not?” She looked to Norrington, who nodded, shooting her a grateful glance.

“Yes. And regardless of whether you resign your commission or not, Lieutenant, Lord Ashbourne will take it as collusion. You know that, and any sign of such on our part now is likely to touch off the very witch hunt we hope to avoid within our ranks. I’m sorry, Jeffries, but I cannot accept your resignation.”

“Sir -” Jeffries started, and Thomas shook his head.

“Lieutenant - the situation in Nassau is hardly going to be solved by violence. It will need a great deal of finesse. Admiral Norrington, on the other hand, is likely to need a man of action - someone who can act where he cannot - go where he cannot.” 

“My lord - with all due respect - James is my friend. If anything were to happen to you in Nassau, it would also mean the end of any hope of rescuing him.”

“Thomas,” Thomas repeated firmly. “Anyone who saves my life can dispense with formalities. And I know what I’m heading into. I’ve no illusions that negotiations will be entirely pleasant, but if it comes to getting shot at, then the services of one man, however talented, are hardly going to be enough against an island full of criminals. Stay here. See to it that my father does not gain control of her Majesty’s Navy. I’m counting on you and Admiral Norrington to make certain I don’t have to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for my father’s hirelings.”

Jeffries looked at him for a long moment.

“We will find James,” Miranda said quietly. “I swear it.” Jeffries hesitated a moment longer, and then nodded reluctantly.

“Alright. I’ll hold you to that promise.” 

“I’d expect nothing less,” Thomas answered. He turned to Admiral Norrington.

“We’ll send word when we arrive,” he promised, and Norrington nodded.

“Very well. Good luck.” 

**********************************************  
London’s streets were quiet. The fog muffled the wet splashes of the carriages wheels against the cobbled streets and muddy lanes as they made their way to the pier. The ship stood waiting for them, already lying low in the water, loaded and ready to sail. Her captain was visibly nervous, pacing the deck and snapping orders to his crew, not happy with the late night departure or the prospect of being detained. 

“We will have to load quickly,” Jeffries said. “Sir, if you could -”

“Wait!” 

The cry came from the far end of the pier, and Miranda turned, dread suddenly lancing through her, to find that a lone man stood at the end of the dock, waving to grab their attention. 

“Thomas - Miranda - wait,” he panted, and with a shock, Miranda recognized Peter Ashe. 

“Thomas - thank God I caught you in time,” he wheezed. “I heard what happened -”

Rage filled her, and without thinking, she took a step forward. Thomas’s hand shot forward, catching her and holding her back gently, and he looked at her for a long moment.

“Miranda-” he warned. She returned his gaze, and without another word, he removed his hand, nodding reluctantly. “Be careful,” he cautioned, and she nodded, conscious of the echo of her own words. She moved toward Ashe, with Thomas not far behind.

“How did you find us?” she asked.

“I got word from one of my men that a ship was leaving this evening ahead of schedule, and I gambled that you would be boarding it. I’m glad to see that -”

“Spare us the performance,” Miranda cut him off sharply, her words clipped. “We know what you did.”

Ashe’s face paled, and he scanned Miranda’s face.

“Miranda - I -” he faltered, and she sneered, the unspoken admission of his guilt hanging in the air between them. “You know?” he asked.

“I have _never_ been quite so utterly disgusted to be proven right.”

Ashe winced, and she felt a savage thrill run down her spine to see the rodent-like man’s composed facade crack. 

“Tell me, Peter,” she continued, her voice filled with utter loathing, “how far away are Alfred’s men?” 

“Miranda - I would never -” he started to say, and stopped, something in Miranda’s countenance halting the falsehood in its tracks.

“I will ask again,” she said very softly. “How far?”

Ashe’s shoulders slumped at the cold, unyielding tone of her voice.

“I haven’t told them where you are,” he answered. “By all rights I should have when I found out you were here, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” 

“Given that you lie with every breath, I will assume that we have no more than half an hour,” she said coldly. “Thomas -”

“I can speak for myself, Miranda,” Thomas’ voice sounded from behind her, gentle but firm. His hand touched her shoulder, and then he moved forward to stand next to her, eyes fixed on Peter, his jaw set in a hard line.

“Why, Peter?” Sadness mixed with anger in his voice, and Peter flinched at hearing it. “We went to school together, for God’s sake. I translated your damned Latin for you, and this is how you repay me? Years of friendship just -?” He snapped his fingers and glared at Peter accusingly. “We were friends, Peter,” he finished, and Ashe turned guilty, imploring eyes on him.

“I had no choice,” he pled. “Your father threatened to ruin me - to ruin Abigail’s future if I would not testify against you. I -”

A pistol cocked behind Thomas, and Miranda turned, startled, to find Jeffries standing, loaded gun pointed at Ashe’s head.

“Don’t believe him,” Isaac said, gaze never leaving Ashe’s face. “I know why he did it, and it had nothing to do with his daughter’s future.” Ashe blanched. 

“Your father would have -” he started to insist, and Jeffries took two steps forward. He pressed the barrel of the pistol against Ashe’s head.

“Lie again, and I will not hesitate to fire,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth. “Tell them. Tell them about your new appointment - the blood price you extracted in exchange for James’ life.” 

Miranda turned back and found Ashe’s face gone quite white. He shook, staring straight ahead, frozen with fear.

“Peter?” Thomas asked, and Ashe swallowed hard.

“Tell them,” Jeffries ordered again, voice made of steel.

“I - I am to be made Governor of the Carolina colony,” Ashe stuttered. “I am to leave -”

There was a flash of jewelry. Miranda’s palm connected with Ashe’s cheek with a sharp crack, and the older man recoiled, his hand coming up to cover the reddening patch of skin.

“Miranda -” Thomas started, and Ashe shook his head.

“No - I deserved that,” he admitted. 

“You sold him out,” Miranda hissed. “You sold us all - for what? Land? Title? Is that what our _lives_ were worth to you?” Her voice shook with anger and pain, and Thomas gave her a concerned look, which she waved away. “Tell me, Peter - was the madhouse your idea, or Alfred’s?” 

“The madhouse -?” Ashe started, and blanched. “You cannot mean -” 

“They would have sent Thomas there. To Bethlem, to be tortured, _and you helped them do it_.” She was inches away from Ashe now, her fists clenched, angry tears welling at the corners of her eyes. Ashe paled even further if possible, and looked between them as if to confirm, his face crumpling when he saw Thomas’ stunned expression and the realization that crept across his face.

“A title,” he breathed. “You sold _James_ for a title?” 

“Thomas - Miranda - please,” Ashe started, taking a step forward, and stopped as Jeffries pressed the pistol harder against his skull.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t fire,” Isaac invited him almost conversationally. “Just one.” 

“Please -” He started to hold his hands up, to cringe at the sight of the fury written plain on Jeffries’ face.

“You rat,” he breathed. “You’ll get what you deserve or so help me -”

“Isaac!” Thomas said sharply, and the younger man looked at him.

“Put the gun down,” he said, and Isaac shot him an incredulous glance.

“You would let him live?” he asked, and Thomas nodded.

“Yes. He may have sold us out. He may even deserve to die for it, but I am not going to be the one to carry out sentence. I leave that to God and so should you.” Jeffries stood for a moment, gun still raised. 

“We’re going but you’re needed here. He’s not worth it,” Thomas said quietly, and slowly, reluctantly, he lowered the weapon. He released the hammer slowly and stepped away.

“You're lucky, Lord Ashe,” he said quietly, “that the man you betrayed is better than you.” He turned, and, without another word, he walked back down the pier, stopping on the way to the gangplank to grab some of the bags and carry them onto the ship with him. Thomas turned back to Ashe, sadness mixed with anger and even a dash of disappointment all evident in his face as he looked at Ashe’s defeated expression.

“Thomas,” Ashe started. “Thank -”

“Get away from me, Peter,” Thomas said, his tone unchanging. “Perhaps when I’ve sorted out this mess and James is safe I’ll be able to bear the sight of you again.” 

Ashe flinched as if struck, and stared at Thomas, who looked away, swallowing hard as if the words had hurt to say.

“I never meant for any of this to happen,” he said mournfully. “James was to be banished, not - it was never supposed to happen like this.” Thomas gave a huff of mirthless laughter.

“Well, you’ve certainly managed to stuff it up rather badly,” he answered. There were tears in his eyes, Miranda noticed, and she squeezed his hand. “I sincerely hope for your sake and hers that Abigail never comes to learn of any of this. I hope it was _worth_ it - truly. Goodbye, Peter.” He turned away.

“Wait,” Ashe implored. Thomas turned back, and Ashe reached into his coat. With his other hand still raised, he retrieved a packet of documents and held them out. Miranda took them, still frowning, still primed to strike.

“I betrayed you. I know it, and I’m sorry,” Ashe said. “I felt I had no choice, but that doesn’t make it right. When you find James - tell him that, and give him those.” 

Thomas’ frown deepened, and he unfurled the papers, skimming over them. 

“These -” He started, and then looked up at Ashe. 

“Letters of marque, from the new Governor of the Carolina colony,” he said. “If James is alive, he will not be able to come back to England. It’s the end of his career. This way, he won’t have to turn pirate to make a living. Tell him to fill in the name of the ship when he’s established.” 

Thomas stared. He was still frowning, but he nodded tightly.

“Thank you,” he acknowledged, and Peter breathed a sigh of mingled relief and resignation.

“I realize it doesn’t replace what’s been lost but it’s something. For what it’s worth - I am glad you escaped. Godspeed.” 

Thomas nodded, obviously not trusting himself to speak any further, and turned away. Miranda did not, and he gave her a questioning look.

“Go ahead,” she said quietly. “I’ll be there shortly.” He nodded, and made his way down the pier, helping Jeffries with the remaining luggage. Miranda turned back to Ashe, and when she spoke, her voice was low and dangerous.

“Thomas,” she said quietly, “may forgive in time - that is his decision, and his nature. I will not. Not now, not ever.”

“Nor should you,” Peter said. “I did what I had to. I am truly sorry that this was the result.”

“Not sorry enough.” She turned, not trusting herself to say anything further, and walked away, toward Thomas and Jeffries.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and she shook her head sharply. 

“Not now,” she said, and Thomas nodded, understanding. She was shaking, she realized - trembling with anger, rage coursing through her like fire, warming her despite the cold London night. She stood, fists clenched, teeth clamped, breathing slowly, and Thomas wrapped an arm around her shoulders, simply holding her until she could find words again.

“He destroyed our lives, Thomas,” she murmured finally. “We’ve been so occupied with other matters the past two weeks that I had - put it away, I suppose - focused on our goals instead. Now -” She swallowed and shook her head. “I don’t think I knew how _enraged_ I was until I saw him,” she admitted. “To see him standing there, the new _Governor of the Carolina Colonies_ , while we run for our very lives -” She cut off abruptly as Thomas moved his arm, allowing it to shift from her shoulders to her waist.

“They haven’t won,” Thomas assured her, meeting her gaze head on. “Not yet. We will find James, we will regroup, and then my father and his allies will pay the price for what they’ve done. We will be safe again, I promise you.” She nodded, and then wrapped both arms around his middle, her face buried in his neck and his chin touching the top of her head as she wept.

“All aboard, any who’re planning on coming!” The captain’s voice sounded over the pier, and Thomas gently disengaged himself. He wrapped an arm around Miranda’s shoulders.

“Time to go,” he murmured, and she nodded and allowed him to lead her onto the ship.

“Everything alright, ma’am?” Jeffries asked. Miranda nodded.

“Yes,” she said. She took a deep breath, looking around the ship. “Yes,” she repeated, more forcefully. She smiled at Isaac, who looked to Thomas uncertainly. He nodded.

“We’ll be alright,” he confirmed. “Lieutenant - I wanted to thank you again for -”

“Sirs - ma’am - begging your pardons but best if you move below decks,” the first mate’s voice sounded from behind them. “We’ll be getting under way, and the men need to be about their business.” 

Isaac nodded. 

“Of course,” he acknowledged. 

“Take care, Lieutenant,” Miranda said. “And if we can ever repay you -” He shook his head. He looked her straight in the eyes, his grey eyes meeting her brown ones.

“Just find James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question answering time! 
> 
> Question: What’s the deal with the Jacobite rebellion reference?
> 
> Answer: All real, all happened, with the exception that of course there was no Alfred Hamilton involved. The mentioned politicians were suspected of being involved, although there was no concrete proof. If you want an awesome little tidbit from history, look up 1696 assassination plot on Wikipedia to learn about how people tried to kill King William III twice near the end of the seventeenth century. It’s worth noting that there were several historical Hamiltons, including one who was the Governor of Jamaica, Archibald Hamilton, who was very definitely a Jacobite. It would not be at all surprising to find that Alfred was a member of the same family and shared their loyalties.
> 
> Question: Why is Miranda so much more emotional here than she seems to be when she and James leave England?
> 
> Answer: Because Thomas is there, and because James is not. The way I see it, Miranda did a lot of stuffing away of her feelings, a lot of which was done explicitly for James’ sake. He needed her to be strong, because right then, he was one hundred thousand percent not ok. He was angry, and distraught, and not thinking clearly, so Miranda did what she had to to get him out of England safely instead of letting him go off and do what he wanted to. She spent the next 10 + years doing the same. Here, Thomas is alive. No one is dead. James is in trouble, but they’re on their way to save him - he’s not beyond help the way that Thomas was. Yes, Thomas is upset, but he’s got a goal, he’s got focus, he’s optimistic about their chances, so Miranda can allow herself to go to pieces a bit, and let’s be honest, if you were forced to leave your home and practically everyone and everything you knew, you’d be damned upset, even more so if it came at the hands of someone you trusted. You’ll notice she’s not just weepy - she’s also angry, and kind of slappy, and also she’s been doing political things because no one watches the woman (which is a mistake, always, as Jeffries finds out.)
> 
> Question: Is any of what I have written above to be taken as medical advice?
> 
> Answer: Dear Gods no. People who have been knocked on the head and passed out should go straight to a doctor. Do not pass go. Do not collect 200 of anything. Go straight to the hospital.
> 
> Comments clear my skin, cause my crops to grow, and are generally lovely!


	6. Tropical Storm James

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, we find out what's going on with James!

_Nassau, December 15th, 1705_

“It has been a month and a half. We have a prisoner in our gaol but no money in our purses and nothing to show for your brilliant strategy but the knowledge that somewhere in Whitehall, the Navy is most likely planning on taking back their officer. Something must be decided, and soon!”

Edward England’s voice resounded around the small office, and Benjamin Hornigold rolled his eyes. The younger man crossed his arms, annoyed, his hazel eyes narrowing as he looked at Hornigold. 

“And what would _you_ do, hmm? Turn him loose? See him go back to his masters with a tale of the pirates who are so disorganized that they cannot even decide what to do with one Naval officer, much less defend their island?” Hornigold gave England a condescending look, and the younger of the two Edwards in the office bristled.

“Keeping him here will only inflame sentiment against us! He cannot stay in that cell forever.”

They stood in Fort Nassau, if the crumbling pile of stone set overlooking the town could properly be called a fort. In the months since they had taken control of the island from the late Governor, cursory attempts had been made to repair the place. As it stood, however, their attempts at rebuilding had been as laughable as the current conversation, which was headed downhill fast if Hornigold was any judge.

“If the English will not ransom him, then perhaps the Spanish will take him. They are at war. An English officer would be worth a pretty penny to them, no doubt,” Teach suggested, and Hornigold snorted.

“And call attention to our presence here before we can begin to build anything?” he scoffed. “Nassau is weak, weaker, God help us, than when that incompetent fool Thompson sat in the Governor’s seat. If the Spanish get wind of our position here before we have the chance to make Nassau feared, it will be the Rosario Raid all over again, and this time there will be nothing left to rebuild!”

“We could just kill him,” another voice interjected. Silence descended, and Charles Vane shrugged, the motion setting the beads in his long, brown hair rattling. He gestured with the apple in his hand. “What? We can’t ransom him. We can’t keep him, and we can’t let him go, so we kill him, and let them see what happens when the Navy sets foot on our shores.” He raised the apple to his mouth and took a bite, supremely unconcerned, and Hornigold felt a headache forming behind his eyes. He raised a hand to the bridge of his nose, massaging it in a vain attempt to be rid of the dull pounding sensation.

“The death of an English officer will demand a response,” Hornigold said, feeling suddenly as if he were explaining something to a particularly slow child. “We are in no position to -”

“The boy has a point, Ben,” Teach cut in. “You said yourself - he can’t stay here, and he can’t go free either. The English have already proven they’re scared shitless of us, and if they’re not willing to ransom him, he can’t be worth much to them. I say we slit his throat and have done. There is no need to announce-”

“He is still Martel’s capture,” Hornigold pointed out. “How are you planning on compensating him for the loss?”

England snorted.

“What loss? He’s -”

“Still useful in the right hands,” Hornigold said, “and though I do not condone those uses -”

“Uses?” England had gone tense, his shoulders set as if for a fight. “You know what Martel will do. The man’s a damn butcher. If he can’t make money off of him, there’s nothing he won’t do for entertainment.” Vane was watching him now, as well, and the look in the younger man’s eyes spoke his opinion of the idea quite clearly. Hornigold shook his head. Both Vane and England were young - too young to understand what they risked. Neither man was yet over twenty-five, and it showed. They were brash as only young men could be - still convinced that life should conform to their desires. One day, Hornigold mused, one of them was going to follow the other to their deaths out of sheer stubborn refusal to see the world for what it was.

“If we kill him now, it won’t be long before the rest of the crews on that beach start wondering what prize of theirs we intend to steal out from under their noses, regardless of what the man’s worth or not worth. We cannot act without consulting Martel first,” he argued. He gestured with one hand. “Unless you would prefer to see every crew on this island turn against us.” Vane stood, somehow managing to make the movement threatening despite the distance he maintained from Hornigold.

“So you would hand him over to Martel without a second thought - just like that? Is that what we are now?” 

“I don’t like it any more than you do -” 

Vane took half a step forward, hand going for his sword, and Hornigold snorted.

“What are you going to do? Gulley me for speaking the truth?” 

“Maybe, if you keep excusing your rank fucking cowardice as anything other than what it is,” Vane answered. “Tell me - when were you last tortured for sport? Have you ever been a slave - someone’s plaything? No. You’ve never been -”

“Charles.” Teach’s voice held a note of warning. Vane cut off abruptly, and Hornigold could see his fists clenching.

“I won’t stand for this,” he warned. “I didn’t come here to become a goddamn slaving fuck. Talk to me again when you find your balls.” He turned and walked away, and the two older pirates watched him go.

“He has quite the temper,” Hornigold said, and Teach snorted.

“He’ll come around, eventually,” He said. “Charles may be hot-headed, but he’s not stupid.” 

“I’m with him on this,” England said quietly, and both Hornigold and Teach turned. “This is wrong, and you know it. The man’s done nothing to any of us, save having been enlisted in the British Navy, and if you want to condemn him for that, then you must condemn me and half the men on this island with me. He deserves either freedom or a clean death.”

“What a man deserves and what a man gets are seldom the same thing,” Hornigold observed. “If you want to survive long on this island, I suggest you make your peace with that.” 

England shook his head.

“I’ll have no part of this,” he said, making a gesture as if to wash his hands of the whole mess. “No man should fight well and bravely and be made a slave for his troubles. Good day, gentlemen.” 

“That one will be trouble,” Hornigold predicted, and Teach nodded.

“You can take a man out of the Navy,” he said heavily, “but you can’t take the Navy out of the man. What the hell Winter thought he was doing recruiting him -” He shook his head. “I’ll contact Martel. He’ll need to come and collect his prize.” Hornigold nodded, and Teach turned, his footsteps echoing down the abandoned corridor as he left.  
**********************************************************  
James was cold. 

It seemed odd, somehow, that he should be freezing in a place as warm as Nassau, but it was the truth. There was only so much his uniform coat could do to keep him warm, and he had long since given up on the idea of having warm feet. The damp from the sea crashing against the cliff had seeped into the cell where he sat, and the result was the shivers that ran through him, making sleep difficult and forcing him to get up every so often, ignoring the clanking of the chains around his wrists, to try and shake some feeling and heat back into his limbs. The cell stank of mold and the waste bucket that sat in the corner, exiled as far away from James as he could manage. He did not wish to contemplate what he himself smelled like, although he could hardly fail to notice. 

Worse than the cold and the smell, though, was the boredom. He had been stuck in the cell for what felt like an age, although in reality he suspected it had been closer to two months. He had kept track via a set of scratch marks he had carved into the wall, but eventually he’d stopped making them out of sheer depression at the length of time that had passed since he had begun with no word and no rescue. There was nothing to read, and he did not waste time trying to get the guards to talk. They’d cursed at him the few times he’d asked for anything, and there was no sign of anyone other than the guards - no sign of his captors, nor of Thomas or Admiral Hennessey or Jeffries, despite his frequent forays into fantasies of any of them showing up to take him from his prison. He was surprised, therefore, when he heard footsteps approaching his cell, and the clank of keys in the lock. 

“I’d like a moment alone with the prisoner.” An educated voice sounded in the corridor - one that James did not recognize. He scrambled to his feet, chains rattling, as the door opened and a man, tall, lanky, and dressed in a brown coat entered the cell, ducking as he came through the door. 

“I came to see that -” He started, and then stopped at the sight of James, who stood, filthy, his beard grown too long and his hands shaking from the cold, face thin from the lack of decent food. The pirate gaped.

“Jesus Christ,” he swore. “What the fuck do they think they’re doing?” He crossed to the door and wrenched it open. “For the love of God, bring the poor bastard something to eat,” he ordered. “Now!” 

He turned back to James. 

“God Almighty,” he muttered, looking James up and down. “You’re a bloody fright.”

“Two months’ near starvation will do that to a man,” James answered. His voice did not shake, he was proud to say, and the pirate looked him over again, surprise and not a little admiration flashing across his face. He took two steps toward James, who raised his chin, coming to stand at parade rest, refusing to show him any weakness. The pirate shook his head. 

“You are proper Navy, aren't you?” he marveled. “All starch and ceremony, half dead and still willing to play bloody games.”

James raised an eyebrow. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met, Captain -?” 

“Edward England,” the pirate answered. “I’d say at your service but I’ve never served a soul but my own under this name and I don’t much intend to.” 

“It’s an odd choice of name for a pirate,” James observed, and England shrugged. 

“It sounded impressive at the time,” he said, “and by the time I realized it was likely to cause confusion it had stuck. On the other hand, I now have people offer to fuck me several dozen times a day.” 

He grinned, and James gave him an unimpressed look.

“You presumably came down here to do something other than tell terrible jokes. Have I been ransomed?” He tried to control his voice - truly, he did, but his desperation must still have leaked through, because a brief look of regret crossed the pirate’s face and he shook his head. James did his best to ignore the disappointment and the brief twinge of fear that ran through him at the gesture. 

“What’s the date?” he asked, still trying to keep his voice from shaking. They had to come for him soon. Perhaps he had counted the days wrong, or -

“It's been more than long enough for your friends in London to have responded to our demands,” the pirate said almost sympathetically. “It's beginning to look like you're on your own, I’m sad to say.” 

James swallowed hard. _Shit_. Shit shit shit shit and shit. The word was all his brain would spit out for several seconds, and he took a deep breath, attempting to get himself back under control. He could not show fear - not here, not to this man.

“No doubt you had half the ransom spent already,” he said, covering his own panic, and England shook his head again. 

“Me? No. I’d not see the lion’s share of it. I’m not the one who captured you - just one of the poor bastards who’s agreed to keep you locked up.”

“So you came to gloat and ease your disappointment?” James guessed, his tone bitter, and England frowned.

“Prickly bastard, aren’t you?” 

“Try being held hostage for months and see how your disposition holds up,” James snapped, and England laughed.

“I suppose you’re all sunshine and roses normally, then?” he asked.

“You could release me and find out,” James suggested sarcastically.

“Somehow I suspect that wouldn’t end well,” England said, “although for your sake, I confess, I’m inclined to give it a go. Think you could make it out of here on your own?” 

His tone was light, but his expression was utterly serious, and James abruptly realized that he was asking in earnest. He stared at the other man for a moment, taken off guard, and then glanced at the door, which stood unguarded for the moment.

“Answer me quickly,” England hissed, and James nodded. He was awake, now - suddenly more aware than he had been in months at the prospect of action after so long. 

“Good. Take this.” The pirate fished around in one pocket and then handed him a large key, which James quickly tucked into his thankfully overly large cuff. “It will get you out of those.” He motioned to the manacles encircling James’ wrists. “The watch changes in two hours. If you time your escape properly, you might be able to sneak your way out of here. I’d go for the eastern wall if I were you - it’s in need of repair and you might be able to find a hole.” 

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and the guards returned, bearing food. James took a step backward, eyes still on England, whose face had suddenly lost its intensity, going blank.

“Eat. You’re no use to anyone dead,” he said, motioning to the plate of meat and cheese that someone had scrounged up. The guards retreated again, leaving them alone in the cell, and James looked between England and the plate of food that was more than he had seen in the entire week preceding this visit.

“Why?” He croaked. 

“You’ll need your energy to run,” England answered, and James shook his head.

“No. Why all of this?” He gestured to the hidden key and the food. “Why help me?” England paused.

“We came here to be free men - to decide our own fates. What good is that if we cannot let others do the same?” With that, he turned toward the door and walked away, leaving James alone to ponder. 

Two hours.  
**********************************************  
The first thing he was going to insist on now that they had the fort was the addition of a few more torches in the lower levels, Charles Vane thought irritably.

It was dark down here, and not in the way that a moonless night out at sea was - no. The dark down here was close, claustrophobic, and it unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite justify to himself. He was not, he thought, a man easily spooked, but this place did it. Perhaps it was just the knowledge of what the place was - that on its own would be enough. Regardless, though, he had business there, and he was not going to be deterred by a little darkness. He forged on, until he came to the corridor where two men stood guard outside the prisoner’s door.

“Leave,” he ordered, and the guards nodded. He inserted the key in the lock and twisted, pushing the door open in the same motion. The prisoner inside stood, surprise flickering through his eyes. 

“Two visitors in one night,” the other man said dryly. “I take it the rum’s run dry and you need entertainment.”

Vane raised an eyebrow. 

“Something like that,” he acknowledged. “I take it someone’s already told you what they’re planning up there.” 

“England didn’t see fit to share the details,” the officer answered, and Vane grunted.

“Fucking coward,” he muttered, and the prisoner frowned.

“Why?” he asked. “What’s the plan?” 

Vane turned away, clenching his fists in agitation. He still wasn’t sure why he had come down here, other than to have a look at the man he was condemning. He owed him that much, he’d thought, but standing here admitting what they were - what he was about to do to the man was significantly more difficult than he’d anticipated.

“Came to apologize,” he said abruptly, and the officer raised one elegant eyebrow.

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. The men upstairs don’t understand, but someone should be fucking sorry for what they’re about to do.”

“Understand what?” 

“The man that captured you - he’s gotten a reputation for the way he treats his prisoners. He -”

“Enjoys inflicting pain.” The prisoner’s tone was flat, and Vane nodded. 

“Mm-hmm.” 

“How long?” the lieutenant asked, and Vane grimaced.

“An hour. Maybe less, depending on whether he’s in his cups or not.” The lieutenant turned away, his fists clenching, and Vane watched him, searching for something to say.

“You got a name?” he asked finally.

The other man turned back, a frown drawing his brows together, mouth flattened into an unhappy line.

“Why the hell do you care?” 

“Every man deserves to have a name,” Vane answered. “Martel won’t give a fuck, but you should.” The prisoner stared, visibly surprised, and Vane scoffed.

“What? You think because I’m a pirate I’m also fucking stupid?” 

The officer had the good grace to look vaguely ashamed of himself, and Vane leaned against the wall, eyebrow raised. 

“So,” he said. “Name?” The other man gave him a considering look and then cleared his throat. 

“James McGraw,” he answered finally, and Vane nodded.

“Right. For what it’s worth, McGraw, I’m sorry.” 

Something like scorn passed over McGraw’s face, and he stepped forward.

“Don’t be fucking _sorry_ \- do something to stop them! Anything, instead of sitting on your arse apologizing!” he snapped, and Vane stood up straighter, anger coursing through him at the accusation. 

“You think I haven’t tried?” he demanded. “I told them to just kill you and get it over with. Teach might have listened, but fucking Hornigold’s sitting there digging in his heels, and Martel’s all but champing at the bit to -”

“John Martel?” McGraw interrupted, and Vane nodded.

“Yeah. You see my problem.” 

McGraw slumped backward against the wall.

“ _Shit_ ,” he muttered vehemently. He ran a hand over his face, head turning upward toward the moonlight coming through the window, and for the first time, Vane took a good look at him. He didn’t look like a Navy officer, all starch and polish and no sense of decency. He looked like a poor bastard far from home who was about to face horrors because he had chosen the wrong profession and been captured by the wrong man.

“Look -” Vane started to say. “I’ll do what I can to get Martel to see reason. He’s a rotten fuck, but maybe -”

Somewhere in the distance, the church bell struck the hour, and Vane turned. It was eight o’clock already. He turned back, intending to say something further - and without so much as a word of warning, McGraw lunged forward. Before Vane knew what was happening, the Navy officer had spun him and wrapped the chains around his neck. He thrashed, trying to weaken the other man’s grip, but the chains tightened, and he choked. He clawed at the other man’s face and connected at least once, eliciting a grunt, and kicked, but missed, succeeding only in forcing McGraw backward toward the wall, to his advantage rather than Vane’s. He rammed his head backward to no avail, hitting nothing but air, and saw spots start to appear in front of his eyes. He gasped - and the door opened with a bang. Footsteps rushed in, and then the chains were gone from around his neck, and he coughed and bent forward, massaging his throat as McGraw was wrestled away from him, cursing and fighting like a demon. In a matter of seconds, he had taken the sword from someone’s scabbard and three men lay on the floor, clutching at bleeding wounds. Vane turned in time to see him fall, hit on the head from behind. The pirate nearest him swung his blade toward the downed man’s neck, and then there was a clash of steel, and John Martel stepped forward.

“That’s enough,” he roared. “Back off, all of you.” He turned to McGraw, who lay, dazed, on the floor, his red hair fanning out behind him where it had fallen out of its queue, eyes hazily focusing on Martel, who grinned.

“Seems there might be a way to make a profit off you after all,” the pirate said. “Get him up! He wants to fight - let him fight every man on the island, and they can pay for the privilege.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that is Edward England you see there. Yes, I am aware that his pirating career didn’t actually start for another decade after this, but neither did the real Charles Vane’s so…. I do what I want, basically. I’m basing his personality on existing accounts, which have him on record as possibly the most moral, honorable pirate in the West Indies at the time. It’s what got him marooned in the end, as a matter of fact.
> 
> John Martel was really one of the pirates operating out of Nassau at the time, although his reputation was probably not quite as bad as I’m making it out to be. 
> 
> Also, please note: I’m going with the older version of Hornigold, who would have been in his forties if he was a day at this point, because that’s what we get in the show. In reality, Benjamin Hornigold was of an age with Vane and England and might have been 26 in 1706. Same for Teach.
> 
> Comments are <3


	7. Warm Front Over Nassau

**February 23rd, 1706**

_The street was dark and cold and horribly crowded._

_James had heard London described as a teeming morass of people, and it had never seemed more true than here, now, in this street, with the rain pouring down as if to compound the human misery found there. The noise alone was deafening, and he turned, confused, trying to get his bearings. Mud sucked at his boots, living up to the district’s nickname with its oozing foulness._

_“Excuse me.” He turned to the old woman nearest him. “I’m looking for -”_

_“Piss off!” Her voice was a screech, harsh and grating. He turned, grabbing hold of the arm of the next person to pass him. He felt the roughness of a wet wool coat under his fingertips and grimaced._

_“I’m looking for my friend. He’s tall -”_

_“Nobody here for a toff like you,” someone else snarled. “Be off.” The man jerked his arm away, the wool slipping through James’ fingers._

_He turned, and caught hold of another man’s sleeve, catching him as he walked by, and ignored the annoyed huff, holding tight to prevent being shaken off._

_“I’m trying to find -”_

_“Me?”_

_He turned sharply, and found Thomas standing next to him, but not as he had known him. He had lost weight in the months since James’ departure, but that was not all. His clothing was stained, his formerly well-kept hair a dirty mess, and the look on his face - James reached forward, attempting to pull him into an embrace, to wipe the horrible, angry, despairing look from Thomas’ visage. His lover pulled away, his shoulder moving out from under James’ hand, and he frowned, terrible and cold even covered in filth._

_“Where have you been, James?” His voice was frigid, clipped and hard, and James gaped, horror welling up in him at Thomas’ state._

_“Thomas - I came as quickly as I could -”_

_He pulled his cloak off with shaking fingers, proffering it to Thomas._

_“Here -” he started, and, without warning, Thomas reached out and shoved him as hard as he could. James stumbled backward, shocked, to find a look of rage on his lover’s face._

_“We needed you. Why weren’t you here?” Thomas demanded, accusing, his blue eyes stabbing James with their intensity. “Where the **hell** have you been?”_

_“Thomas - I’m sorry. I’m here - I’m -” James reached forward to touch the dirty, too-thin face. Thomas recoiled._

_“My father disowned us when the plan fell through. We had nothing. We lost everything. Why didn’t you return?”_

“Lieutenant? Lieutenant!” 

_“Thomas - please -”_

_“You left us. Miranda **died**! I thought you were dead too! How could you -?”_

“McGraw - for God’s sake, wake up!” 

Something stung his cheek, and he jolted awake, flailing wildly, and felt his hand connect with something or someone.

“Easy now,” Edward England’s voice said, and James shook his head, looking around him to find not the dank horror of the London slums but the tent he currently inhabited in Nassau. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and sat up slowly, blinking sleep out of his eyes and running a hand through his tangled, too-long hair, grimacing at the grease and sand in it. His clothing was sweat-soaked, sticking to him, and he cursed under his breath as he turned a weary eye to the man sitting and watching him.

“You again?” He sat up slowly, and the pirate gave him a grim smile.

“Don’t know what demons you were fighting, but you’ve one hell of a right-hook.” England massaged his jaw, and James scowled. 

“Stay further away next time,” he muttered, irritation welling up within him, and then looked up at England, who crouched next to him, and felt guilt run through him at the sight of the growing bruise on the other man’s face. He’d done nothing to deserve the blow. “I didn’t know you were there,” James offered by way of apology, and England waved him off. 

“I’ve had worse,” he answered. “And this little souvenir will be good currency with the ladies at the Pearl for some sympathy.” The arrogant shite grinned, and James gave him an unimpressed stare. 

“I can’t stay long,” the pirate said. “I’ve brought some food. Are you injured?” 

James shook his head. The adrenaline from the nightmare had faded, and he closed his eyes, feeling a wave of weariness wash over him. Not injured, no, but tired beyond belief, and unlikely to get any more sleep tonight. Or today. Whichever it was.

“No,” he answered. “I’m fine.” He pointedly ignored the throbbing of the wound on his leg from two days earlier. It did not count, and furthermore, there was nothing he could do to help it, so it did no good to complain. He would endure. He shifted himself forward, determinedly ignoring the clank of the chain fastened around his leg, and hurriedly wolfed down the meat and cheese that England had brought him, then took the small flask of water and drained it. 

“You still haven’t answered my question,” James said, wiping his mouth on one sleeve. “Why the hell are you doing this?” The question had been nagging at him. He could think of no good reason for the pirate to give a shit whether James lived or died, and yet he had come, faithfully, every day since they had dragged him from his cell in the fort and chained him here. Thus far, he had asked nothing in return and refused to give James an answer that made any kind of sense as to why he would do such a thing.

England shrugged.

“Call it sheer contrariness,” he answered. “I’m not in the habit of giving my enemies what they want, whether it’s a ship or a prisoner or the kind of fun they’re intent on having with you.” 

“Odd,” James snapped. “It seems to me I’ve been here for the past month and a half making that bastard more money every time I get knocked on my arse while you do an admirable job of keeping me alive so I can keep doing it.”

“Would you prefer I stop?” England raised an eyebrow, and James scowled.

“I'd prefer it if you would unlock these chains and let me slip out the back of this tent,” he gritted out, and England sighed.

“Martel would know it was me, it would trigger a right royal bloody mess of a fight, and this entire island would go up in flames by the time it was finished.”

Perhaps in another lifetime, James would have cared. Three months ago, presented with the same argument, he might have backed down - might have swallowed his anger long enough to find a shred of patience to hold onto, might have asked himself what Thomas would expect him to do. Now, though, he was tired. His healing wounds hurt like blazes, and the dream had shaken him, leaving his nerves jangling. Bugger being calm, and bugger what Thomas would encourage with his saintly patience and good nature. James wanted to go home.

“I don’t give a damn what it will trigger,” he snapped. “There are people back home in England who need me. Those people are likely beyond worried by now, while I sit here on my arse doing nothing, and you would propose that I continue to do so, and all because you can’t work up the courage to do something without permission from Edward _bloody_ Teach. My superiors in London -”

He stopped, abruptly cut off by England’s hands as he seized hold of him, stopping his tirade in its tracks. The man’s grip was surprisingly strong, James thought, for someone who looked so slight, and he hung, suspended by the front of his coat, half up off the pallet he had been sleeping on.

“You arrogant English shite,” England gritted out. There was irony in that, James thought vaguely, and shoved the thought to the back of his mind where it belonged as the pirate shook him. There was a faint lilt to his words now - one that reminded James of Hennessey, truth be told, a lingering trace of an Irish upbringing. “You’ve a fancy education, so see if you can get this past your thick skull. This island is a powder keg waiting for a chance to go up, and I’m not going to give it an excuse, not for you, not for anyone. You came here talking of peace with Mother England - of men being allowed to go about their lives in peace. Well I’m telling you that no one came here looking for peace with any Empire. We came here looking to get away from all that - every one of us. You want to go home. This _is_ my home, and I’ll not see it fall to infighting or the bloody Spanish or the British Navy just because you can’t be arsed to give a fuck about anyone other than your bloody self.” He released the front of James’ shirt, letting him fall back, and turned away.

“I have to leave,” he said, still breathing hard, shaking with anger. “I’ll be back soon as I can. Try not to lose any more fights between now and then.” 

James sat up, getting one arm under himself, the sand digging into his palm.

“You’re planning on returning?” he asked, and England snorted.

“I just said so, didn’t I?” 

“Why?” The question came out before he could halt it, and England sighed.

“You may find this hard to believe, but I don’t take any pleasure in watching men be tortured,” England answered shortly. “I’ll see you shortly.” 

He ducked out of the tent, leaving James behind him, still lying where England had dropped him, staring after him in shock. He believed it, James realized, slightly dazed. He really believed what he was saying. And if he believed it there had to be others that felt the same - men who wanted this place to succeed and thrive. Thomas, he thought, would be pleased - if James ever got out of this tent to tell him. He rolled over, sitting up with some amount of difficulty, and curled in on himself, freshly miserable now that he was alone again. He was still bound, still tired, and still bloody terrified, remembering Thomas’ gaunt, dirty face and accusing expression. It could not be reality - it could not, and yet the feeling of dread would not recede. He needed to get out of Nassau, and thus far the only progress he’d made toward that goal was to piss off the one man arguing his corner - that, and the knife that he had lifted from England’s belt while the other man had attempted to shake him into giving a shit about Nassau’s fate. He sat, knees pulled up to his chest, and, in the privacy of the tent, quietly admitted to himself that he was in trouble.

 _Isaac - Hennessey - if you’re coming, it had better be soon,_ he thought. _Please - make it soon._

********************************************  
He had cooled off by the time he walked the mile into town proper.

Edward England considered himself a tolerant man, but James McGraw, he was quickly realizing, was going to test that tolerance to its limit. In all fairness, though, he was not sure he himself would have reacted any differently, had he been the one tied up and forced to play gladiator. The man looked terrible - probably felt it, too. Was it any wonder that his temper was short? 

No. No wonder at all, nor was it surprising that England’s temper was fraying as well under the circumstances. He needed a solution - a quick one, because he had seen the look on Martel’s face of late. He was considering expanding his profits, and that could mean nothing good for the unfortunate Lieutenant. Perhaps if England -

“You gonna keep going around in circles, or did you have somewhere to be?” 

Charles’ voice sounded from around the corner, and England tensed, hand going to his sword hilt. 

“Easy,” Vane said, holding up both hands, and England sighed.

“Jaysus, Charles,” he admonished, the Irish accent that he normally attempted to keep under wraps slipping through. “You know better than to startle me like that.” Vane shrugged, unrepentant, and stood straight, no longer leaning against the side of a building as he had been doing.

“How long do you intend to protect him?” He fell into step beside England, who, after taking his bearings, started off toward the harbor, his stride long enough to force Vane to scowl and walk faster to keep up with him.

“Until I can find a way to end this bloody farce,” he snapped. “If fucking Martel would just slip and do something other than sit there, this could be over tomorrow.” 

“You know he would never return the favor, don’t you?” Vane said. “There’s no gain to be had in this. What the hell do you think you’re accomplishing?” 

“You’re saying I should just let them have him? Let Martel and his fucking savages do whatever they want?” He kicked at a piece of driftwood near his boot and watched it go careening off to the side of the path. 

“I’m saying that -” Vane started, his tone reasonable, wheedling even, and England scowled.

“It’s not right, Charles. You know it. I know it. The whole damned island knows it, and yet no one will get up off their damned arses to do a fucking thing about it, because no one wants to risk being the one to light the fuse. All of this because three grown men can’t make peace among themselves and stop arguing like children over a shiny toy. Tell me - when did any of them last shift themselves and capture a prize or do any actual work that didn’t involve sitting around talking like old men?”

“Pretty sure that horse you keep flogging is dead,” Vane answered, and England gave him an exasperated glare. “Martel’s a fuck. No one’s denying that, but unless we have a reason to move against him that isn’t some Naval prick come from England to offer us what we don’t want in the first place -”

“You fold like an overused blanket sometimes, you know that?” 

“And you keep wagging your tongue long past the point where you should shut the fuck up,” Vane returned. “Least I’ve never been stupid enough to cross Teach of all people over a fuckin’ dustman.” 

“He’s not dead yet, and you’re still angry that he tried to strangle you.” 

Vane snorted. 

“I’m pissed that you didn’t tell me not to go down there. You couldn’t take the time to say, ‘by the way, Charles, I’ve let the fucking prisoner loose?’ Couldn’t let me know you had something in mind?” 

England shrugged and opened the tavern door in front of Vane, who strode through and then turned back to England, waiting on his answer.

“I thought you’d be off sulking for a bit longer.”

Vane shot him a glare.

“I can still feel that bastard’s hands ‘round my neck,” he said, using his own hands to imitate a choke hold and leaning closer. “Another two minutes and he might have fucking strangled me. Then where the fuck’d you be?” He lowered his hands to hang at his sides again, and England snorted.

“I wouldn’t be buying us drinks, for starters,” he answered, and Vane made an obscene gesture, causing England to laugh even as he split off to order the round.

The tavern was full today, England thought. He had noticed one or two new ships in the harbor - at least one that he judged to be a smuggler, unloading cargo to go to Richard Guthrie’s warehouse, and another flying Christopher Winter’s colors. He had made a mental note to congratulate the other man on his newest prize - she was a beauty, one that England would not have minded having himself. The tavern was full of both crews, rowdy as ever, and he allowed himself a moment to soak up the noise and cheer. He’d been in sore need of both lately, with the affairs of the beach eating away at his normally good-natured disposition. He needed a solution, fast, and the more he dwelled on it, the more -

“Excuse me - I’m hoping you can tell me where to find Captain Hornigold. I was told to speak to him on a matter of -”

The posh English accent cut through the chatter, sounding an alarm bell in England’s head. He turned, and found a tall, blond man standing nearby, expression visibly frustrated. 

“I need to speak to whoever is in charge here about an officer I believe is being held for ransom,” the man went on speaking, and England silently wondered if either God or the Devil were listening to him and having a laugh. He turned away from the bar, abandoning all intention of fetching drinks on the spot, and made a beeline for the other man, who was running a hand through his hair and sighing in disgust.

“Is anyone here actually in charge of anything?” He wondered aloud, and England reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Not in here, they’re not,” he said, and flashed a smile at the taller man’s startled expression. “Edward England. And you would be?” 

“Thomas - Barlow,” the other man said slowly, as if he were only just getting used to the name. England knew the feeling well. “I’m here about -” 

“The lieutenant - I know. I overheard. Come. I’ve someone you’ll want to meet.”

“Captain Hornigold?” Barlow asked, and England shook his head.

“No. This officer’s a friend of yours?” Thomas gave him a wary look.

“You could say that,” he hedged, and England smiled.

“You learn fast,” he said, and Thomas nodded.

“I try,” he said. 

“Come with me. I’ve got a friend in the corner there who’ll want to meet you,” England invited. Thomas frowned. 

“Forgive me, but -” He started and England shook his head. 

“Bloody stubborn Englishmen can’t take a damn hint, none of you,” he muttered. “I’ve an interest in helping you out, and a friend who can help, if you can convince him to work with us instead of against us. Now, come, sit, have a drink, and we’ll talk it over like reasonable men.” Barlow’s face cleared, and he nodded, willingly following England as they wended their way toward where Charles sat, his back to the wall as usual.

“Edward!” The shorter man shouted. He had acquired a cigar from somewhere, England noticed, and was grinning broadly. “Picked up another stray?” 

England raised both hands in a shrug.

“It’s a gift,” he acknowledged. “The one may help us sort out the other, though. This one is here about our friend on the beach.” 

His friend sat up straight, all traces of cheer leaving his eyes, and he surveyed Barlow more carefully, taking in the quality of his clothing and his overall neatness.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Another one?” 

“I’m not a Navy officer, if that’s what you’re asking,” Thomas said. “I’ve come here looking for one, though, so if -”

“You came to Nassau looking for a Navy officer.” The incredulity in Vane’s voice was eloquent, and it brought a smile to England’s lips. It was a ludicrous statement, taken out of context. Thomas frowned, clearly not in the mood for foolery.

“Yes,” he answered testily. “Can you help me retrieve him, or not?” Vane raised one eyebrow and inclined his head.

“Question is, why should I help you?” he asked lazily. “What can you offer that -”

“Cut the bullshit, Charles,” England snapped. “You want the Lieutenant freed. So does he. Now, are the two of you going to discuss how that might be done, or am I going to boot the pair of you in the arse until you start talking sense?”

Vane shot him a look, and Thomas looked at him, plainly startled.

“Tell me - does everyone here always speak so bluntly?” the Englishman asked, and Vane raised an eyebrow.

“Problem?” he asked, and Barlow shook his head.

“No. It’s quite refreshing, to be honest.” He held out a hand. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. Thomas Barlow. I’m here to find and liberate my friend. I understand you might be willing to help.” 

Vane eyed the hand for a moment and then cocked an eyebrow.

“Charles Vane,” he offered finally, taking a drag on his cigar. “I’ll assume you haven’t seen your friend yet.” 

“No,” Thomas said, retracting the hand with a grimace. “I take it he’s in some trouble?” 

“You could put it that way,” Vane agreed. He stood, draining the ale that he’d somehow acquired in the time that it had taken England to derail his own search for a drink. “Come on. I’ll show you what we’re up against.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are loved and appreciated and replied to as soon as possible!
> 
> If you want to hang out on tumblr, I'm at flintsredhair.tumblr.com.


	8. Afternoon Thunder Showers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAH there is fanart for this chapter! The wonderful Bereweillschmidt (@weillschmidtdoodles/@thomas-hamilton) arted and I could not be higher up on cloud nine about it:
> 
> http://weillschmidtdoodles.tumblr.com/post/159601481131/a-tribute-to-the-fantastic-fanfic-by
> 
> Go check it out!

Nassau, Thomas thought, was dizzying. 

The heat by itself was startling. He had started to feel it during the voyage, but now, on the island proper, he began to appreciate the reasoning behind what had, at first, been a startling lack of clothing adorning her inhabitants. Indeed, as he followed England and Vane, he found himself loosening his neckcloth and unbuttoning his waistcoat. He had left the wig behind in London, and he had never been more grateful than he was now, with sweat beginning to soak through his shirt quite as badly as at the hottest of dinner parties. That aside, though, the island was an odd mix of sand and wild greenery, peopled by the wildest mix of races and nationalities that Thomas had ever seen. The wildlife, too, was enchanting - so far he had seen parrots, two different monkeys, and at least one very large snake, as well as the normal cats, geese, chickens, and pigs that seemed to traverse the streets untrammeled by fences or, indeed, obvious owners. 

“Where are we going?” he asked. He was entirely turned around, with no sense of where on Earth he had started from. The architecture here was startlingly uniform to his eyes - all of it somewhat ramshackle and none of it even remotely resembling the brick and stone structures he had known in England.

“We’re heading to the beach,” England answered, and Thomas took a look around him, hoping in vain to recognize something that he could later use to point himself in the right direction if ever he needed to find his way back.

“I would have thought that a captive would have been kept in the fort,” he observed, frowning.

“Shows what you know,” Vane answered. There was sand under their feet, now - and that was not a helpful marker, Thomas thought. There was sand everywhere, here, and the only thing that seemed to distinguish town from shore was the number of grains that found their way into his shoes as he attempted to keep up with the two pirates. Now, though, he could hear the sounds of men’s voices quite apart from the normal hustle and bustle of the street - jeering and shouting that was coming from a knot of men gathered in a circle ahead of them.

“We’re here,” England said, and Thomas craned his neck, attempting to see what the men were betting on.

“I’ve got some business to see to,” Vane said when they arrived. “It won’t take long. Try to keep him out of trouble, eh?” England nodded and watched him leave, and then turned back, surveying the crowd. 

The ring was crowded, Thomas noticed. It appeared that most of the male population of Nassau had turned out to watch - whatever was going on in the center of the ring.

“What does this have to do with -?” 

_James_ , he started, and stopped, mid-sentence, his question answered for him as the crowd parted for a moment, allowing him to see directly into the ring. James stood in the center, his naval uniform hanging off him, ragged and fraying, his beautiful red hair sticking to his skin where it hung in his face. He was barefoot, holding a sword in one hand, but the shaking in his wrist gave the lie to the confidence in his stance. He glanced around the crowd, and Thomas gave an audible gasp at the purple bruises under his green eyes left by fatigue and the look of desperate fury that twisted his handsome features into a snarl. They were betting on James, he realized - watching him fight and betting on the results, like some kind of ancient combatant in a horrifying, bloodthirsty spectacle, and the thought made the blood rush to Thomas’ head, creating a roaring sound in his ears, anger and fear warring for prominence as he watched his lover tighten his grip on the sword. To his horror, at that moment, the next opponent came forward - a youngish man, both better-rested and better-fed than James, who faced the newcomer warily. The pirate darted forward, sword flashing in the sun, dancing left and then right. James parried the first and second blows that came his way and dodged out of the way of a third, darting to the side to attempt a hit. The strike was slow, and the other man danced out of the way in time, suddenly in a better position to riposte. With a spike of fury, Thomas realized that James was injured already, favoring his left leg. 

“Oh God,” Thomas murmured. “Dear God Almighty -”

Beside him, England was frowning. He turned to one of the spectators.

“How many today?” he shouted, meeting one man’s eyes through the crowd.

“Two so far!” he answered. “This is number three. He's really pissed today- don't know what's touched his fuse but he's drawn blood - twice!”

“Might have something to do with being kept as a fucking plaything,” England snapped. He turned to Thomas, who was standing, eyes fixed on James, his eyes speaking volumes about the horror he felt at the sight before him.

“Jesus bloody Christ,” he choked. “How long has this been going on?” he asked, his voice full of barely contained wrath.

“Nigh on two months,” England answered. “I have to give him this- he's damn tough, your lieutenant.”

“He’s starving, he’s injured, and he looks as though he hasn’t slept properly since he was captured,” Thomas snapped, his blue eyes gone the color of two chips of ice, his face utterly white with anger. “This ends, now.” He started to move forward, intent on James, and England hurried after him.

“You can’t just storm in there and take him,” he argued.

“I think you’ll find that I don’t care.” His blood was boiling. That this should happen to any man was repulsive. That this should happen to _his James_ -

“You’ll care when they slit your fucking throat,” England said, one hand on Thomas’ arm. He shook it off, shooting England an icy glare.

“I’m not leaving him there. This must stop, now. Look at him!” Thomas gestured, his voice raised, and England shook his head, inserting himself between Thomas and the opening in the crowd that he had been making for. Thomas shot him a glare.

“Mr. England - move,” he said. “I won’t ask again.”

“You want to get us all killed?” England hissed, and Thomas stopped, startled.

“What?” There was a clang of steel and a thump behind him in the ring, and he looked over his shoulder, relieved to find that James was still on his feet. 

“You can’t just charge in there because it would cause an almighty uproar and probably get the both of you bloody killed,” England snapped. “You’ve seen what’s happening. Come with me, and I’ll tell you who you would be crossing if you stuck your nose in right now.”

There was a cheer from the crowd, and Thomas turned to find James facing him. He was smiling in grim satisfaction, his opponent downed at his feet, and, as Thomas watched, he wiped at a bloody nose, sword still held steady with his other hand. There was a look in his eyes that cut Thomas to the quick - dark, feral, even, so far removed from the James who had sat in Thomas’ drawing room, made into something else by pain and desperation and hopelessness, and it only increased Thomas’ desire to go to him, to wipe that look from his face and protect him from further mistreatment. He stared a moment longer, and behind him, England cursed under his breath softly.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. He reached forward and grabbed hold of Thomas’ arm, drawing his attention back away from the fight.

“You might have said,” he scolded. “Jesus fucking _Christ_. No wonder you came all the way here for him.“ Thomas gave him a startled look, and England shook his head. “You’re not subtle, friend,” he said, and Thomas felt panic race down his spine once again.

“You don’t -” He started, and England shook his head.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “It’s alright,” he assured Thomas. “No one’s going to judge here.”

Thomas stared.

“We are discussing the same thing, are we not?” he asked, and England rolled his eyes.

“You’re his lover,” he said. “It’s only about as plain as the nose on his face.”

Thomas nodded, dumbstruck, and England gave him a half-grin.

“Welcome to Nassau,” he said ironically, and Thomas took a deep breath, taking a moment to assimilate the information. This - if he could find a way to rescue James, this could change - well - _everything_. " _No more hiding_ ," he’d said to Miranda. He hadn’t understood at the time how very much that might mean but now -

“That’s - extraordinary,” he answered. “Better than that. But if you understand what is between me and James, then you understand why I can’t leave here just yet,” he said, tone firm, starting forward again, and England tightened his grip on his arm.

“Barlow -” He started.

“If I can’t end this now, then I won’t leave without letting him know I’m here,” Thomas said heatedly. “He’s been five months here with no sign or word from me. He must think I’ve abandoned him by now. I can’t let that stand.” 

“How the hell are you planning on doing that?” England asked.

“I suppose it would be out of the question to see him after this next fight?” Thomas asked, watching James and another opponent circle. England nodded.

“Aye. I’ve had enough trouble getting in to see him myself, let alone bringing you along.” 

“And I won’t see him further injured by distracting him,” Thomas said. “Fine. Alright.” He stared at the ring for a moment. 

“If the hill will not come to Mahomet -” he murmured, a plan forming in his head. It was reckless at best, but in the absence of alternatives -

“I’ll need your sword,” he said, and England gaped.

“You don’t mean -”

“I do,” Thomas answered.

“You’re fucking crazy!”

“Said the man who chose to rob ships at _gunpoint_ for a living. Your sword,” Thomas requested. England swallowed hard and, without another word, he unbuckled the weapon and handed it over.

“The fee’s one reale,” he said, and Thomas nodded.

“Will a shilling suffice?” he asked, and England nodded. Without another word, he began to move through the crowd. A moment later he stepped through the throng, and stood, facing James.

Who stood, utterly dumbstruck, staring at him as if he were seeing a ghost.

“Hello, dearest,” he said with a small grin, and James _flinched_.

“No,” he said. “No.” He shook his head. “No,” he repeated, and Thomas frowned.

“James -” He started, and James gave him a skeptic’s glare.

“I’m hallucinating,” he said matter-of-factly, and Thomas took a step forward.

“No, you're not. James -” he tried again, and James clenched his jaw.

“You’re not him,” he said, his voice gone rough. “You can’t be -” His voice started to break, and Thomas felt his heart break with it.

“James,” he murmured, moving closer to his lover. “It’s alright, I’m -” 

James was still shaking his head, backing away. The crowd around them had started to notice, and Thomas took a second step forward.

“James - look at me. I need you to trust me,” he said. “Come on. Attack. I’ll prove I’m here. Do it.” 

James hesitated a moment longer.

“Love - it’s alright,” Thomas murmured. “Just like back in London. Remember?” 

_London, May, 1705:_

_It had taken Thomas all of two moves to get James on his back._

_Normally, he would not have complained, but this was something altogether different. James lay, rapier still in hand, looking up at Thomas._

_“Do you yield?” Thomas laughed at James’ startled expression, and then sobered, or tried to, at the wounded look on his lover’s face._

_“Do you yield?” he repeated, and James gave a disgusted sound._

_“Yes, you win,” he answered, and Thomas stood, hand extending to help James back to his feet._

_“And that, my lieutenant, is why you should never overextend your reach,” he said._

_“In a real fight, I’d have punched you in the nose three minutes ago,” James pointed out._

_“Well it is certainly a good thing that I don’t anticipate challenging you to a duel,” Thomas said. “I’m fond of my nose as is, thank you!” James snorted._

_“Lucky for you, so am I,” he answered. “Let’s try that again. And this time you’re not going to catch me quite so easily.”_

Nassau, February, 1706:

James was certainly holding his own better this time, Thomas thought ruefully.

“You can’t be here,” James panted. “It’s not possible. This isn’t fucking real!”

“I can, and it is!” Thomas assured him. He dodged the slash that James aimed in his direction. “God,” he muttered. “James - we need to talk. James!” His lover shook his head, fear flashing through his eyes along with something else - anger, Thomas realized, anger that he had never before seen directed his way. He took another step forward, steel flashing, and Thomas side-stepped, his heart pounding in his veins. James - did not believe he was here, he realized. He had pulled all of his blows thus far, but the look on his face said that he was still not sure of his opponent. James was frightened, and angry, afraid to strike lest he harm Thomas and angry because he doubted his own perceptions and hated the uncertainty, and until he accepted that Thomas truly stood in front of him - with a sudden jolt, Thomas realized what he was going to have to do. Miranda was going to have a heart attack if she ever heard about this. 

It took all of ten seconds. On his next lunge, he deliberately overextended himself, his leg too far forward, his arm within easy reach of James’ hand. His lover did not disappoint. In a flash, James darted forward, and, in the exact same move Thomas had performed those months previous, he grabbed hold of Thomas’ arm, pulled him forward, and wrapped his leg around Thomas’ knee, bringing them both crashing to the ground, his blade scarcely an inch from Thomas’ throat. He stopped there, panting, staring at Thomas with confusion clear in his eyes. He was close enough now not only to see and hear Thomas but to touch his skin - to smell his familiar cologne, and Thomas could only hope it would be enough.

“Do you believe me now?” he asked, and James stared, green eyes wide.

“Thomas?” he choked out, and Thomas nodded.

“Yes, love,” he answered. “It’s me.” James closed his eyes for a moment, and Thomas looked around them. The cheering was still going on, but it would not last for long. Anger coursed through him as he forced himself to control the urge to reach up, to touch James’ face, to reassure his lover that he was there and not a hallucination brought on by the heat, followed by determination. If his hands could not do what he wanted, then his voice would have to do the job.

“James,” he said. “James - I need you to look at me now. I’m here, but I can’t stay. I’m going to stop this. I’m not sure how yet, but I’ll come up with something. You’re not alone anymore.”

A shudder traveled through James at the words, and he took a deep, steadying breath. He opened his eyes, and Thomas watched them dart around the ring.

“Christ,” James muttered. “ _Christ_.” He darted another look around at the crowd. “You can’t be here,” he hissed, the confusion gone from his voice to be replaced by panic. “You’ll get yourself killed -”

“I know,” Thomas answered, and James shook his head.

“No. You don’t. God - they’ll eat you alive -”

“They’ll do nothing of the kind,” Thomas said sharply, and his tone brought James up short. “I can’t stay - I know that, but you must trust me when I say I’ll be back for you. Do you believe me, James?”

James stared at him for a moment and then, reluctantly, he nodded.

“Good,” Thomas answered, and James shoved himself off. He stumbled to his feet, backing away, his eyes still on the crowd. 

“Go,” he urged. “Go now, or they’ll know something is wrong. Thomas - you have to go.” Thomas nodded and rose.

“Tonight,” he said firmly. “I swear it.” He turned on his heel, forcing himself to walk away, very deliberately not looking at James as he strode away to the sounds of the still-cheering crowd. England met him just outside the ring of people, worry and admiration plain on his face in equal measure.

“Come on. We need to be away from here.” The crowd parted around them, and they moved through it, heading toward the town.

“I’m not sure if that was crazed or brilliant,” England said when they had gotten further out of earshot.

“He wasn’t listening,” Thomas said. “I couldn’t think of anything else to do.” 

“Do you often let men with swords come at you like that?” England asked, and Thomas raised an eyebrow. 

“Only the ones I trust with my life,” he answered. “James is-”

“In big fucking trouble if we don’t get him out of there soon,” Vane finished, reappearing from out of the crowd.

“In what way?” England demanded.

“Martel’s crew are getting restless. They want to go back on the account - quit this shit and make money like proper pirates. Navy down there might not survive them packing up camp - or worse, they might take him with them.” 

“His name is James,” Thomas snapped. “How is that worse?” Vane turned.

“Your friend’s easy on the eyes,” he answered. “Martel’s already got him chained up, when he’s not getting the shit beaten out of him. Wouldn’t take much to demote him to -”

“Charles!” England barked, and Vane stopped. 

“What?” he asked. “It’s not like -”

Thomas stood, frozen to the spot.

“To what?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper, and Vane finally seemed to understand.

“You’re not -?” he asked. “Oh. Fuck.” 

“You’re saying that if we don’t rescue James tonight -” He swallowed. He was not naive enough to ignore the unspoken implication of Vane’s words, and the very thought was enough to make him ill. No. No, no, _no_ , it was not going to happen. Not while he lived. “Martel is the one in charge of this - barbarism?” he asked, gesturing back the way they’d come. His voice sounded odd even to his own ears - controlled, carefully neutral - his very best Whitehall voice, as a matter of fact, for all that it was wildly out of place here.

“Yes,” England answered.

“How many supporters?”

“Enough,” Vane answered. “Anyone who would oppose Martel had better have a damned good reason, and enough support to make his crew think twice about defending him. Right now, the men who fit that description couldn’t give less of a fuck about your boy. They’re happy to keep the peace, or too gutless to break it over one man. They won’t act.”

“Unless someone gives them a reason,” Thomas said. “They would act against Martel if he insulted or harmed them in some way, correct?”

“If he were that fucking stupid,” Vane agreed.

“We’d do better to acquire our own ship and our own supporters,” England said from beside him. “If Teach and Hornigold won’t act, then -”

Thomas shook his head.

“That will take entirely too long,” he said. His voice was still clipped, controlled, his hands only just barely perceptibly shaking where they hung at his sides. “Teach and Hornigold have the support we need?”

“They do. Hornigold in particular. Sway him, you sway all the rest with him.”

“He’ll never go along with it,” Vane argued. “Hornigold’s an old woman - set in his ways. You’d be better off talking to Teach.”

“You have access to them both?”

“Teach more than Hornigold,” England answered, and Thomas nodded.

“Good. Ask them to meet with me. Tonight. Tell them they can pick the meeting place.”

“You realize that Teach is as likely to shoot you as talk to you?” England asked, and Thomas gave him a look, his blue eyes gone hard with determination.

“If Captain Teach thinks he can frighten me, then he has a great deal to learn.”

“He should scare the shit out of you,” Vane said seriously. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Thomas turned.

“You know,” he said, “that question seems to be following me around of late. My father certainly thought I was. Half of London agreed with him, and do you know what I’ve decided?”

Vane shook his head.

“I don’t care if I am,” Thomas said. “I may be completely deluded, but I would rather believe that there is some goodness left in the world than the alternative. It is the reason that I am willing to believe that you, neither of you, are so insensible to the difference between right and wrong as you would have me believe and that Captain Teach can be persuaded to see reason. I choose to believe that, given the choice, men will elect not to act against their better natures, and I choose to believe that you are capable of standing up and helping me to end this, for your own sakes and for Nassau’s sake if not for James’. Am I wrong?”

The two pirates stood and stared at him for a moment, England with his mouth hanging slightly open, Vane with a startled look. The silence stretched on for a moment, and then England found his tongue again.

“You’re - something else entirely, has anyone ever told you that?” England asked finally.

“Several someones,” Thomas said.

“If I wasn’t sure you were barking before, I am now,” Vane said. “I’m in.”

“You’ll help?”

The pirate nodded.

“Yeah. Should be fun, if nothing else.” He grinned. “Come on, Ed. Time to go bait Granddad and the Bear.” He turned and began to walk away, leaving England behind him.

“You’re both out of your minds,” he said.

“No. I’m desperate, I’m angry, and I’d rather be back home in London with a cup of tea, but that’s not an option, so I’m doing the best I can,” Thomas answered, and England laughed.

“You’ve got one hell of a gift for bullshit,” he said, and Thomas shook his head.

“No - I really haven’t. I wasn’t joking when I said half of London thought I belonged in the madhouse,” he said, and England raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll have to tell me why sometime,” he said. “The tavern. Six o’clock tonight.”

“I’ll be there.” Thomas agreed, and England turned, starting to make his way up the hill to the fort.

“And bring some leverage!” he called back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/feedback much appreciated!


	9. A Ladylike Storm

Nassau, Miranda Hamilton thought, was a fascinating place.

She had never been a traditional noblewoman, and her rebellious nature had been the despair of her aging parents, who had feared she would be viewed as unmarriageable, wild as she proved to be. She had had no fewer than four men attempt to win her hand and turn away when they discovered that her intelligence dwarfed their own. It was the reason that her marriage to Thomas had been such a relief. Here, at last, was an intellect as unfettered and as sharp as her own for her to spar with. Here was the freedom to express her views frankly, to shock and scandalize polite society with her words from time to time without facing the prospect of an angry husband upon her return to their home. In London, she had found it exhilarating, watching the faces of proper ladies and their stuffy husbands as they listened to her. Most turned away, or stared, appalled, but some - some had started to attend her husband’s salons, had started to participate in discussions themselves, had broken free of the mold of propriety, and it was those few that Miranda had taken delight in.

Here - Miranda, in the first five minutes of being on the island, had never felt quite so much at home. Here were men and women who could not have been further removed from the stultified crowds of London society. Here, people expressed their opinions, sometimes in the crudest, and therefore most honest, fashions. The markets were bustling with life. Here, laid out in front of her, was life. This was not the beaten-down peasantry of London. Here, people walked proudly and met her eyes, despite the differences in their clothing and upbringing. Thomas, she thought, would be delighted.

“I don’t know your face.” 

The voice came from behind her, and she turned to find a woman of about her own build and coloring standing behind her, her gaze fixed frankly on Miranda.

“I know most everyone on this island one way or another, but not you.” Miranda raised an eyebrow, appraising the other woman no less frankly.

“A marvelous talent,” she returned. “I should imagine keeping it all straight would be quite the task.” 

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” the woman answered. “I think I would remember someone as grand as yourself, though, if you’d stepped foot on the island before now. Did you arrive recently?” 

“Just this morning, as a matter of fact,” Miranda answered. She was still trying to gauge her opponent, for opponent she was. The woman’s clothing spoke of wealth - the materials were all fine, the workmanship equally impressive, but the style was simple. She was not a noblewoman, then, or a planter’s wife. There was far too little of it for that, and her accent spoke of humble origins. So - a woman with money but not born that way, meaning she was of some importance on the island. “My name is Miranda Barlow,” she said finally. 

“Netta,” the woman returned easily. “There. That’s the hard bit over. Now, Miranda Barlow, maybe you’d like to tell me what such a fine lady as yourself is doing here in Nassau.”

“Presently, I’m learning my way around.” Miranda gestured around the market, and Netta raise an eyebrow.

“So you do plan to stay, then?” 

“If I find what I’m looking for, yes,” Miranda answered. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for some insight?” 

“That depends on what you’re after, doesn’t it?” Netta answered with a half-smile.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Miranda answered. “Although I’m hoping it won’t turn out to be a Herculean task, just a small one. Tell me, Netta - what brings you here?” 

“Ah, well,” Netta said, moving to take Miranda’s arm and link it with her own, walking them both along the street. “At the moment, I’m here for a remedy for Captain Teach. He does get terrible indigestion of a night, and I thought I’d make the living with it easier.”

“Captain Teach?” Miranda asked, and Netta smiled. 

“I see you’ve heard the name.”

“Only in passing,” Miranda answered. “You know him well, then?” 

Netta laughed.

“I’d better, or I’m out a lover and a business,” she answered. “I confess - I’m pleased to hear you say you’ll stay. There’s precious few women here that aren’t whores or pirates, and scarcely a one of them that knows their letters. I could do with some conversation. What say you?” 

“I believe I mentioned that I was looking for something - someone - first,” Miranda said. 

“Aye - so you did. Well - as I said, I know most everyone on the island one way or the other. It might be I can help, but you must come round for tea. I won’t stand here in the street gabbing.” 

“Of course,” Miranda agreed. “I should speak with my husband.”

“Ah, so you’ve a Mister of your own,” Netta said. “I’ll look forward to meeting him too.”

“Where shall we meet?” Miranda asked. 

“At the Pearl,” she answered, and Miranda nodded. “Around one o’clock, say?” 

“I would be delighted,” Miranda answered, and she smiled. 

“Nice meeting you, Miranda,” she offered, and then she was away. Miranda wended her way back to her temporary lodgings still considering. She had assumed, coming here, that she would be forced to retire her skill at the Game. That, it seemed, had been a hasty assumption, and one that she was glad to have disproved. There was still room for her talents here, it seemed, and it was with high spirits that she returned to the inn, energized at the progress she had made.

It was a surprise, therefore, when her husband returned to their rented room at the only inn in town, clothing rumpled, his blue eyes storm-filled, brows drawn together, for all intents and purposes both highly upset and utterly absorbed in some problem.

“Thomas?” she questioned. “What is it? Have you found James? Are you alright?”

Thomas turned, and the look in his blue eyes took Miranda’s breath away.

“Tell me,” she said seriously, and Thomas turned, jaw clenched.

“They’re hurting him, Miranda,” he forced out, and she felt her stomach drop out from beneath her. “They’re forcing him to fight for _sport_. I saw him. He - Lord have mercy -” He had clenched his fists so tight that the knuckles had turned white, and Miranda saw that there was blood welling under his fingernails where they were digging into his skin. He did not seem to notice, his eyes fixed on the floor, and she went to him, gently taking his right hand and grasping it until he released his grip, breathing hard.

“Tell me,” she encouraged, tamping down on her worry and the anger that shot through her at the words. James was in trouble. That much they had known. This changed matters little, save to make rescuing him more urgent.

“We’re setting him free. Tonight,” Thomas choked. “I don’t care who I have to pay, or how much. I won’t allow them to keep him one second longer than I have to. Every moment he spends with that pack of criminals leering at him is one minute too many. All these months -”

“He’s been injured?” She asked, worry turning her tone sharp, and Thomas nodded.

“Yes. God, Miranda - he wouldn’t even believe I was there at first. If my companions had not been there, I swear -”

“Your companions?” Thomas had been busy, then, just as she had.

He nodded tightly.

“Two captains here on the island that, thank God, seem to have a shred of decency left - enough to sympathize with our goals, at least. I’ve asked them to arrange an audience with the men in charge here - Captains Hornigold and Teach. I gather that Teach in particular may prove willing to aid us with the right motivation, but I cannot for the life of me see how I might induce him to move against the man holding James. I feel as if I’ve jumped into the lion’s den and found myself utterly unable to pray in any tongue that God might recognize. This place is -”

“This place,” Miranda said, “is simply a different version of London, though we are miles away and the climate is worlds apart. The difference here is that you do not yet know which men to face head on and which ones may be coaxed into compliance.”

Thomas sighed and raked a hand through his hair.

“You’re right,” he acknowledged. “Of course you are. I should practice what I preach. I’m going about this from the wrong angle, aren’t I?”

She nodded.

“Yes. Fortunately, I am not.” He looked up at her sharply, and she gave him a satisfied, almost triumphant little smile.

“You know something?” he questioned.

“I’ve had an - _interesting_ morning,” she answered. “In fact - it had never occurred to me, somehow, that this place should be quite so similar to London in many respects - including how much the women here talk about their men. You said that you were to meet with a Captain Teach, yes?” Thomas nodded.

“Well, then I think it’s time we paid a visit to his wife, don’t you? She’s a lovely woman, and I’ve promised her I’d be round for tea this afternoon.” 

“His wife?” Thomas asked incredulously.

“Yes! Her name is Netta.”

“You’ve been out all morning the same as I, and while I stumbled about getting lost in Nassau, you’ve managed to meet and apparently befriend the very woman I need to speak with if I’m to have any chance of persuading Teach to help us,” Thomas said, shaking his head. 

“While I would love to claim the credit,” Miranda said, “I’m afraid I have to confess that she found me rather than the other way round.”

“Modesty doesn’t suit you, dear,” Thomas pointed out. “Does she live in town?”

“Oh yes,” Miranda answered. 

“Where?” She smiled at him.

“At the brothel. It seems she’s the madame. Come along!”  
**************************************************  
The noise of the tavern had increased four fold by the time that Thomas returned that evening.

He had walked in earlier in the day feeling himself defeated. In all honesty, he had felt so since the moment he had stepped off the ship onto Nassau’s shore - a sense of futility that only increased as he talked to the town’s inhabitants, who either told him to piss off or had a laugh at the newly arrived toff. He had come to the tavern with the vague sense that if he could not find James, at least he could find a brief respite from the sun. He had left with two tentative allies and now, returning, he could not help but feel himself both very lucky and quite clever, as he was returning with a plan, several people willing to help him carry it out, and a trick up his sleeve that was nearly guaranteed to win James’ freedom within the hour. He could not quite help the satisfied smile on his face, and if he was perhaps more confident than necessary upon approaching Edward Teach, he felt it could only help.

The man in question sat at a table near the corner of the room - one of the darker corners, Thomas noticed. His lit cigar illuminated his eyes at intervals, lending him a devilish countenance. Thomas shook his head at the theatrical gesture. If Teach wanted to play this particular game, he would have to do so with someone else, as Thomas was in no mood to spar.

“Captain Teach. A pleasure to meet you,” he greeted, and watched the other man incline his head a fraction. “I assume you speak for Captain Hornigold as well, judging by his absence?” 

Teach smiled minutely. Interesting. Thomas spared a moment to worry for Captain Hornigold and hope that Teach had not done something unsalutary to him and then refocused. He could not be distracted.

“Mr. Barlow. Charles and Netta tell me we have business to discuss.”

Thomas shook his head.

“On the contrary. You and I have little to talk about. Captain Martel and I, on the other hand, have a great deal to discuss. I would prefer not to disturb you in the process of having that discussion.”

“Disturb me?” Teach raised an eyebrow.

“I fear that Captain Martel and I might disagree,” Thomas said with a small smile, and Teach frowned.

“Martel is a sworn ally, and unlike the lords in Whitehall, I do not betray my own.”

“And if they betray you first?”

Teach raised the other eyebrow, and Thomas gestured with one hand, never taking his eyes off the other man.

“Mr. Cooper?”

“Aye.” The pirate’s voice sounded behind him.

“You are part of Martel’s crew, yes?”

“His quartermaster - aye.”

“Tell Captain Teach what you told me not an hour ago.” The pirate nodded and, with a quick dip of the head in Teach’s direction, he cleared his throat and spoke.

“He’s been skimming,” he said quickly, with no preamble. “He’s been keeping more’n his fair share of the winnings off his little venture on the beach, and it’s starting to affect morale. What’s worse - he’s implied more than once that -” He stopped, and Teach sat forward.

“Implied that -? Perhaps that I am in some way involved? That the theft is something to do with me and therefore beyond the crew’s ability to protest?” Cooper nodded heavily.

“Aye.”

“Most recently, Captain Martel has been heard complaining about the share of his profits owed to ‘King Blackbeard’,” Thomas informed him quietly. 

“The capture was our work,” Cooper said. “Any profits made belong to all of us. I’ve kept quiet up til now because - well, I’m feared of him, and there’s the truth, but he’s gone too far. He’s starting to get the men grumbling. I don’t want them getting killed on account of Martel, and I don’t appreciate his little sideline. It’s not right, what they’re doing - I’ve said so from the beginning.”

Thomas nodded to Cooper.

“Thank you.” He turned back to Teach. “I trust,” he said quietly, “that I don’t need to tell you what might happen if the men on this island start to resent you?” 

“And what is your concern if they do?” Teach was watching them closely now. Thomas raised one eyebrow and inclined his head in an approximation of a shrug.

“Aside from being naturally averse to violence, I have none,” he answered. “I intend to have a chat with Captain Martel. As a courtesy, given the information I’ve just handed you, I would ask you not to interfere when I go to meet him.”

“You dress as one of us but you speak like an educated man, and you say you have business with Martel. Would your business happen to concern the young naval officer being kept like a chained tiger by Martel and his crew?” 

Thomas said nothing, and Teach sat back.

“You’re his contact in London,” he said. “The one working to pardon these men and send them back to working as slaves for the British Empire.”

Thomas stiffened, and Teach sat forward.

“Tell me, Mr. Barlow,” he drawled. “Why should I help you to achieve your aims when we have such vastly different goals?”

Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but was pre-empted, his wife’s hand on his arm serving to silence him. She stepped forward, her eyes squarely on Teach, hands held folded in front of her, a determined look on her face.

“Captain Teach - we are not here as your enemies,” she answered firmly. “Far from it. We did not come here as landed gentry seeking to change Nassau, but as people driven from their home by the same empire we once sought to serve. We are, in effect, refugees, seeking the same shelter Nassau has offered to every man and woman here.”

“If you intend for me to feel sympathy for your loss -” Teach started.

“What I intend,” Miranda said, overriding him, “is to reclaim one of the very few things I value above that which I have already lost. I would prefer not to invite conflict with you in the process. Please, Captain Teach. Take this information in the spirit that it is offered - as a token of good will and a statement of our intent. We mean you no harm. All we ask is that you stand aside instead of placing yourself between us and James.” 

"And if I deny you?" 

Miranda's eyes met his, and she lifted her chin. 

"Then you are not half the intelligent man that I first took you for." 

Teach studied her for a long moment, and Miranda stood, still poised, still meeting his pale eyes resolutely.

“My wife,” he said slowly, “has spoken very highly of you, Mrs. Barlow, and as usual I find that she is a good judge of character. It's not often I meet a woman of your determination." He turned his head slightly, looking to Vane.

“Charles!” Vane stepped forward. 

"Need something?" 

Teach nodded.

“Be so good as to accompany our guests to fetch their friend, and while you're there, see to it that Mr. Martel learns the cost of lying to his crew.” Vane nodded, and flashed Thomas and Miranda a quick grin. Teach sat back.

“You will need a place for your friend to recover,” he said. “There is a small house in the interior, no more than an hour’s travel away from the town to the west. It is currently standing empty. Take him there - no one will ask questions.”

Miranda nodded, and Thomas turned to Vane.

“I know the house he mentioned,” Vane said. “Edward can take her there while you and I go and settle our score with Martel.” He motioned to Miranda, who hesitated for a moment and then nodded.

“Very well. Thomas - be careful. Captain Vane -”

“He’ll come back in one piece,” Vane agreed. “Provided you stay out of the fighting.” This last he directed to Thomas.

“You expect there will be some resistance, then?”

Vane grinned.

“Yeah.”

***********************************************  
James was in trouble.

He was tired - so very tired. His arms ached, and the cut on his head throbbed. He could feel blood oozing its way down his face, warm against his clammy skin, and he wiped uselessly at it, succeeding only in removing a strand of hair from the mess to hang in his face instead of sticking to it. He took a step backward, and winced as he felt his ankle twinge beneath him. He was not going to win this fight - he could feel it. There had been too many before it - at least five that day, and four the day before, and God alone knew how many in the nights preceding. Tonight. Thomas had promised he would return tonight, but the sun had set an hour ago, and James still stood, exhausted and dizzy from the heat and the loss of blood, wondering if he had dreamt the entire exchange. There was so much blood; it was all he could smell, soaked into the ground beneath him and running down his face, occasionally getting into his mouth as his sweat carried it there. He felt he had been swimming in it since they had dragged him from his cell, and he wondered idly what they would do when he could no longer keep up the grueling pace - when he finally fell, unable to move from exhaustion.

The pirate leered, and James winced, the answer to his question staring him in the face. He raised his blade, his grip on the weapon wavering with fatigue. He was not going down without a fight. Anger washed over him at the thought, and he let it happen, allowed the rage to give him the strength he needed. He started to move in for the first strike - and heard a commotion behind him.

“Fuck this,” a familiar voice muttered, quite close to him. James turned, startled, and found that Teach’s young protegé, the man he had tried to strangle, was working his way through the crowd, pushing people roughly out of the way until he reached the ring. James raised the sword in his hand, prepared to defend himself, but, to his surprise, Vane stepped past him, ignoring the raised weapon entirely. There was an unpleasant crunch, and then the leering pirate was flat on his back, staring up at Vane with a startled, half-indignant, half-frightened look on his face as he realized who he now faced. The younger man gave James a nod and turned, eyes still half on the downed pirate, facing the crowd, leaving James to stare, shocked, at his back. 

“What the hell are you doing?” James demanded, confused, and Vane looked over his shoulder, half a grin on his face.

“Got tired of sitting on my arse,” he answered, and turned back. “Men of the _Martha_! My name is Charles Vane. You know who I am. You know who I work for.” He stopped, giving the crowd a moment to stop murmuring amongst themselves and James watched, still stupefied. This - went a long way toward proving that Thomas was actually on the island. No one else he knew, at least, had a habit of stirring men to action like this, and for just a second, he allowed himself the flicker of hope that sprang to life within him. 

“I come tonight with a message from Captain Teach,” he continued. “Your captain has been stealing from you all. Tonight, Mr. Cooper and I searched his tent - thoroughly. Would you like to see what we found?” Shouts came from the crowd, and Vane nodded to a man standing behind the crowd. He came forward - and emptied a sack of shining, golden coins on the ground where he stood, the coins hitting the sand with a series of soft clinks and thumps, and the silence of the crowd was suddenly deafening.

“Here is the money that Captain Martel claimed was owed to Captain Teach - to King Blackbeard! I come to tell you that no such payment was demanded, or delivered. You’ve been had - all of you!”

“Where’s Martel? Where is the fucker?” A shout sounded from out of the crowd, and grew in volume. James could hear several colorful suggestions as to what should be done to the pirate captain, several of which he agreed with on a visceral level.

“I say,” Vane growled, “that we give him a taste of his own medicine. Captain Martel wants to force another to fight for his freedom. Well, I say he can do the same. Where is he? Where is John Martel?” He raised his voice, calling out to the crowd, and James held his breath. He had never caught sight of Martel since the night he’d come to collect him from the fort. Was he here tonight?

He was answered by the dead silence that fell from one particular part of the gathered rabble. Slowly, the crowd parted, and Martel strode forward, eyes on Vane, who grinned, the expression almost feral.

“I was hoping you’d show up,” he said, grim satisfaction in his voice, his left hand going to the sword buckled on his right side.

“So was I.” James moved forward to stand next to Vane, gripping his borrowed weapon with one hand, his bloody knuckles still oozing and the cut on his head covering one side of his face in red. He was still breathing hard, his other hand shaking. His gaze was fixed on Martel, focused on the bastard who had tormented him for the past month and a half. Rage coursed through him at the sight of the man’s wiry form and cruel, disdainful eyes, shoring up his failing strength and keeping him standing. He was tired, but that did not mean he could not see his chance when it was before him. He stepped past Vane, standing now in the center of the circle of people, standing as straight as he was still able, allowing himself for a moment to forget that his coat was a tattered mess and his hair and beard a matted horror streaked liberally with blood. Thomas was watching - or at least James devoutly hoped he was, for the sake of his own sanity. 

“Captain Martel’s treachery affects all of us equally.” His voice scratched in his throat, hoarse with fatigue, but audible over the shouts and whispers, gratifyingly loud even now. “He has cheated you of your coin, but he has cheated me of something far more precious - something every man on this island values even above profit. Something I would kill to regain. Freedom.” He turned, waiting until all eyes were on him before continuing. “I’ve been here for five months. In that time, I’ve learned that you're all more than up for a fight." A ripple of laughter traveled through the crowd, and he held up a hand. "But, since he can't fight all of you, I would propose a solution. I would fight for you - for all of us. I volunteer to fight on your behalf as his opponent. In exchange, I claim the right to walk free of this place if I win.” The shouting intensified, and Vane threw a look over his shoulder at him, approval and something akin to respect flashing in his eyes.

“Bold,” he complimented. “You sure you’re up to it?”

“I’m fine,” James growled, and Vane nodded.

“You’d better be. Martel’s a tough son of a bitch. Cooper?”

“Agreed,” the quartermaster said. “Your life for his. Captain - pick up your blade. Navy -” 

“My name,” James growled, “is James McGraw.” Fuck the Navy. Fuck Hennessey, and every other bastard that had made this moment necessary. If they couldn’t be bothered to come to his aid, then he was no officer of theirs. 

Martel had picked up his sword, and now stood, eyes on James, knees bent, all but snarling in rage. Vane looked between them, and shook his head.

"Pair of fucking idiots," he muttered. "Fight!"

Without another word, James lunged forward toward Martel, who parried his first overhand blow, and the second, but moved too slow to dodge the feint that James directed at his left side, and caught the edge of the blade just an inch away from his side. Martel may have been a fighter, but he was no match for James’ fury. He retaliated, and seemed shocked when James met his sword squarely and punched him, a resounding blow that left him open for another strike as he reeled away. James took the opportunity that presented itself, slashing at Martel’s exposed leg. He dodged just in time to avoid Martel’s defensive blow, and the follow-up, and then darted in closer, another feint leaving Martel’s left side open again. James lunged for it, knocking the pirate to the ground, and then he was atop Martel, punching him over and over again, sword still in hand, his vision a red haze. He was only stopped by a pair of hands catching at one arm.

“James,” Thomas’ voice said. “James - stop. That’s enough. He’s down - you’ve won.” He turned, and found Thomas’ blue eyes boring into his. 

“Thomas?” 

His lover nodded, and James faltered. 

“He deserves it,” James said, his breath coming short. “The bastard has it coming.”

“I know,” Thomas said. “But you don’t. Don’t do this. James. Please. This isn’t you.” 

The words shook him from his stupor, and he closed his eyes. He was tired - oh so very tired, and yet even through the haze of fatigue, Thomas’ words made sense. He was not the animal Martel had tried to make him into - not yet. He took a deep breath, his vision clearing, and he found Martel beneath him, his face a mess of blood and lumpy-looking broken bones. James’ own fists were red where the blood had spattered over his hands and flowed from his own split knuckles, the pain of which he only now registered. He turned, one hand still caught above him, and felt a shudder travel through him, and then dry-heaved at the sight of the carnage.

“Oh thank God.” Thomas breathed, his voice sounded odd - ragged with relief. His hands released their grip on James’ arm, and he lowered it to his side again, still sitting on Martel’s chest, breathing hard. Beneath him, Martel groaned - still alive, if considerably less smug than before. 

“You bastard,” the pirate slurred, his broken jaw and teeth interfering enough to render the insult comical. “You’re a bastard son of a French whore.” James looked down wearily, and with a sigh, he shoved himself to his feet, stumbling away. “You bastard!” Martel groaned. “When I get hold of you -”

“Stay down,” Thomas snapped. “And when you’re well again, do everyone here the very great favor of sailing away.” James turned, and found Thomas standing by Martel's prone form.

“Who the fuck are you?” Martel slurred. Thomas stood, looking down at the pirate, his expression colder than James had ever seen it save in dreams.

“I’m the man who’s just convinced the man you’ve been torturing not to kill you,” he said in a clipped tone. “I’m also his lover, so I’d advise you not to test me a second time.” He looked - dangerous, James thought with a touch of surprise. When had Thomas turned into this frightened, angry man with a look on his face like grim death? Thomas seemed to notice James’ attention, because he turned to look at him, his brows drawing together and mouth going tight in an altogether more familiar concerned expression.

“I’d stay down if I were you,” Vane said to Martel. He turned from the groaning, bleeding pirate to look at James. “McGraw - you alright?” 

James started to answer - started to nod in the affirmative, and instead he turned to the side and retched again. 

“Shit,” Vane muttered, and James closed his eyes, desperately willing himself to stay on his feet. He took a step to the side, and felt himself wobble, felt himself start to fall before a pair of hands caught him, keeping him from hitting the sand.

“James - James, stay with me. Look at me. I’m here. I have you.” Thomas had somehow gotten to his side, and now stood, propping him up, his elegant hands now coated in blood from James’ stained, torn clothing. His lover’s eyes were full of concern as he propped James up, one hand stroking over his greasy hair.

“Thomas.” He was still not convinced he was not hallucinating, but the evidence was beginning to stack up. He looked like Thomas. He sounded like Thomas. He even, if James concentrated, smelt a bit like Thomas, and out of nowhere, James felt a wave of homesickness and longing wash over him. He wanted this to be Thomas - wanted to be safe, to allow himself to fall apart after so long holding onto his sanity by an increasingly frayed thread. He was tired, and hungry, and hurting, and the combination of the three brought tears to his eyes. The man in front of him looked like Thomas. He sounded like Thomas. His hands felt like Thomas’ hands, and James finally gave up the ghost, unwilling to fight any longer. Occam’s razor was good enough, considering that he’d long ago lost his own. 

“Jesus, it’s good to see you,” he mumbled, and Thomas let out a huff of laughter.

“It’s good to see you too. I’m so sorry it took me so long to find you.” 

“How -?”

“I’ll explain later. Can you stand?” 

James nodded, exhausted beyond speech. As the adrenaline rush died down, he could feel the ache in his muscles and the stinging, burning pain of the cuts that littered his body. He leaned on Thomas and attempted to take a step but failed, his knees suddenly buckling and sending him pitching forward. Thomas caught him again, and then a second set of hands was supporting him, lifting his weight on the other side - Vane.

“I’ll say this for you,” the pirate grunted. “You’re a tough bastard. Get you an earring and a ship and you’ll be a proper pirate.”

“I’ve bled enough,” James said. “No more holes.” Vane grimaced.

“You’re a fucking mess,” he agreed. “Come on. The doctor’s not far away. We’ll get him patched up and out of here.”

This last was directed at Thomas. 

“Hold on, James,” he urged, but the words sounded oddly muffled and Thomas’ face was a blur. He felt Vane’s hand tighten on his arm and heard him curse, and then he was falling, rushing toward the ground, the darkness hurrying to greet him.  
*************************************************  
_Four hours later_ :

“He’ll be perfectly fine.”

Thomas released a relieved sigh and sagged against the wall. He had been standing in the hallway outside James’ room since they had reached the house, alternately pacing and attempting to be cheerful for Miranda’s sake, but now the tension went out of him like a puppet cut from its strings.

“Thank God,” he murmured, and the doctor nodded. He was a young man, Thomas had been surprised to find - not over thirty, with a broad face and the hint of an Irish accent, reminiscent of England’s.

“He’ll need rest, and some decent food,” Howell continued. “He’s in bad shape, but I think in a few weeks he’ll be right as rain if you can keep him from overworking himself.”

“That will be the challenge,” England said. “He’s a stubborn beggar. We’ll see what we can do.”

The doctor nodded and left, and England turned to face Thomas.

“You’ll have your hands full with that one,” he said, and Thomas nodded.

“James is stubborn, but not foolish,” he said. “I don’t know how I can repay you for your help, Captain England, but -”

England shook his head.

“You’ve sorted a problem,” he said. “For me and for Nassau, or rather he has. Tell him when he wakes that I owe him a pint for handling Martel for me. The bastard had it coming.”

He turned and walked away, nodding toward Miranda as he went, and then they were alone in the house.

“Are you alright?” Miranda asked quietly, and Thomas sighed.

“Before tonight I would have said that I was not a violent man. But seeing James in pain -” He shook his head. “I wanted to hurt them, Miranda. I saw him bleeding and exhausted and -” He stopped, drawing a hand over his face. “God, if I’d had a pistol I might have shot the bastard myself.”

“You would have missed,” Miranda said, and Thomas chuckled. 

“The voice of reason speaks true as always,” he murmured, and Miranda smiled. He leaned against the wall, and felt Miranda place one hand on his arm, drawing him closer until finally he pulled her into an embrace, hands shaking, and she allowed it, her head resting against his shoulder and hands gently clutching at his shirt, nails lightly scratching against his skin beneath it. They stood, silently holding onto one another for a long moment, and then he drew away, giving her a tired smile.

“You’ve both been through a great deal,” she said quietly. “James is sleeping. The doctor said he would likely not wake until sometime tomorrow, given what he has been through. Come. You need rest - we all do. Come to bed.”

“Someone should stay with James.”

“He’s in no imminent danger - the doctor said so himself. You’ll hardly be of any use to him half alive. Come.” She towed him toward the bed in the smaller guest room and reluctantly, he followed her, his steps dragging with fatigue. He managed to pull off his shoes and unbutton his shirt, and then he was asleep, laid out atop the covers, his chest rising and falling evenly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, John Martel's ship was called the _John and Martha_.
> 
> As usual, comments are loved and appreciated!


	10. The Morning After the Hurricane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. Here it is. The chapter you've been waiting for.
> 
> Prepare for the schmoop!

Everything hurt.

James woke to the sound of a chicken clucking somewhere nearby and the feeling that he had been run over by a carriage. His head throbbed. His back ached, and the rest of him fared little better, pulling a low, groaned curse from between his lips. He struggled to move, and found that his limbs had at long last given up the fight, refusing to move more than a few inches. The movement, however, revealed that something had changed. His arms felt - heavy, but not with the weight of manacles, just the heaviness of muscle fatigue. His feet were the same, and with a start, he realized that he was no longer shackled. He finally managed to open his eyes, and found himself lying in a bed, blessedly unbound and, for the first time in months, clean. It felt odd, after so long - as if he were missing a layer of clothing rather than a layer of filth. He could feel bandages around the worst of his injuries, and from the feel of them, they had had some time to heal. He raised his head, and then sat up slowly, painfully, the arm he used to push himself up protesting the motion, and took a look around him.

He was in an airy, well-lit room in what appeared to be a small house. A ewer and basin stood on a washstand at the foot of the bed, and he could see a small collection of books on a shelf near the door. There was something familiar about the smell of the place - something soothing, although he couldn’t quite place it, foggy as his mind still was from sleep and pain. Sun filtered through the window, landing on his legs and warming him. Reassured, he allowed himself to close his eyes again. The silence and warmth were so very welcome after the nightmare of the past months, and for just a moment, he could imagine that he was at home in London, sitting in bed with Thomas and Miranda nearby.

The momentary calm was broken by the sound of footsteps in the hall outside the room, and he felt his heart stop momentarily. They were coming. He attempted to rise - attempted to move, to be ready to fight if need be. He would not go back to being their slave - he could not. He succeeded only in tangling the sheets around his legs and felt panic rising in him as the footsteps got closer. He cursed, nearly falling out of the bed in his attempt to free himself. The door opened, and he ignored the sound of the footsteps hurrying toward him, looking for something to defend himself with.

“James? James, it’s alright -”

He froze, feeling suddenly as if someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over his head. He turned.

“Thomas?” His voice was a croak, but Thomas smiled, obviously relieved. His blond hair was still tousled as if he had only just risen from bed himself, and James could now see that he was carrying a large tray full of what appeared to be salve and fresh bandages. James gaped, staring stupidly at his lover, who grinned.

“None other. Hello, Love.” He moved closer, laying the tray on a table next to the bed, and continued to grin at James. “I must say, it’s a pleasant change to find you conscious and coherent. You’ve been raving for the past few days - gave us quite a fright until your fever broke just last night.” His expression softened, and he reached out to touch James’s face, his thumb stroking James' cheek gently. “I’m glad you’re back with us.” James reached up to touch his hand, his own shaking from a combination of sheer fatigue and shock.

“I thought I was hallucinating, on the beach,” he confessed. “What - what the hell are you doing here?” The knot in his stomach was slowly unraveling itself as he looked at Thomas, even as some part of his mind registered alarm at the simple fact of his lover’s presence. Something was not right. Thomas should have been in London, not Nassau, and he certainly should have been dressed in better quality garments. His clothing was strange, as was something in his manner. More aware now, James allowed himself to truly examine the other man. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he looked at Thomas. He was dreaming again - he had to be, and yet the bed beneath him felt so real. Thomas’ voice sounded so _real_. “How -?”

Thomas smiled again and withdrew his hand.

“We can speak of it later,” he answered. “Right now you need to regain your strength. There’s soup, and then -”

“Thomas -” 

“-if you think you can stand, I think some time on your feet would be best. The doctor said not to let you lie still for too long now that you’re conscious - something about keeping you from developing pneumonia, I believe.”

“Thomas - please - if I’m not dreaming again -”

Thomas’ expression changed, and he looked at James with sudden concern. 

“James?” 

He shook his head, unwilling to believe his eyes.

“I’ve dreamt your face too often. Please -” He looked at Thomas with pleading eyes, and the expression on his lover’s face turned from concern to outright worry, his brows knitting together even as he comprehended what James was trying to ask for.

“My God,” he murmured. “What have they done to you?” He sat down on the bed, and, wrapping one hand around the back of James’ neck, he leaned forward and kissed him soundly, almost bruisingly hard, lightly biting at James’ lower lip as if to prove he were real through the pinch of it, and James gasped, the taste of Thomas’ mouth proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was, in fact, there before him. He raised both hands, capturing Thomas’ face between them, refusing to let him go, and returned the kiss, drawing a noise from Thomas that was a combination of need and surprised laughter. 

“I’ve missed you too,” he murmured against James’ lips, and James shuddered.

“You’ve no idea,” he answered. “None. Dear God, Thomas -” He swallowed hard, searching Thomas’ face with his eyes as if to re-memorize every feature, and Thomas let him do it, holding still for a long moment and letting James look his fill. When he drew back, he did not lose eye contact with James, looking him straight in the eye, his hand still resting at the base of James’ skull, fingers twining into his (blessedly, wonderfully _clean_ ) hair, solid and warm and reassuring.

“You are not hallucinating,” he reassured him. “You’re not dreaming. Do you believe me?” 

“You were there, in the ring,” James said, the words half a question, and Thomas nodded.

“Yes. I wanted to let you know I’d come to rescue you. I’m sorry, James - I didn’t realize you’d take my arrival quite so hard.” 

“You were there on the beach the night I fought Martel?” James asked, and Thomas nodded. At the gesture, James took a deep breath, letting the words wash over him and sink in. He was safe - really, truly safe and not imagining things.

“You’re quite sane,” Thomas assured him. “Is that what you were concerned about?” 

He nodded, and Thomas gifted him a smile, his mouth turning up at the corners.

“You can stop worrying,” he answered. He retracted his hand, and James could not help the feeling of vague disappointment that washed over him at the loss of contact. Still - he had questions that needed an answer, and the dread that had welled up in the pit of his stomach at the thought of all this being yet another dream had not entirely died away. He banished the feeling firmly. He was here. He was safe, and Thomas was very decidedly real. With that decision made, he faced his lover, feeling suddenly a thousand times more secure in his perceptions.

“Thomas,” he started, and then decided to simply ask. “What happened?” 

He shifted in the bed, trying to sit further upright, and winced as pain raced through him, sharper than the dull roar he had woken to. He felt the slide of the sheets against his skin, pooling in his lap, and looked down. He was naked, he realized suddenly, and flushed. 

“Please tell me that you’re responsible for this and not whatever doctor you found on this godforsaken spit of land?” He gestured, and Thomas’ lips twitched upward. 

“Your virtue is quite safe,” he answered, amused, and the word brought James back to his original concern. 

“Where’s Miranda?” he asked.

“She’s in the kitchen,” Thomas answered. “Making what I’m told will turn out to be soup, although I’m not entirely sure where she’s learned to make it. Our Miranda is a woman of many talents, apparently.” He grinned, and James sighed in relief.

“Thank God,” he muttered. “But if you’re both safe and both here, then what are you not telling me?” 

Thomas sighed. 

“James - you’re still not well,” he said. “Are you certain you want to hear this?” 

James nodded.

“I think I’d better,” he answered. 

“Alright,” Thomas said. “But I’m abbreviating. Heavily. You’re not to overexert yourself - doctor’s orders.” 

*******************************************************  
_Ten minutes later_ : 

“Hennessey,” he said. He could not quite find the words to express his growing sense of betrayal adequately, but Thomas seemed to understand. 

“I know,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe he enjoyed it, or that he believed he had a choice.” 

“And yet Admiral Norrington saw fit to aid us.” The bitter irony of it stung. Thomas nodded.

“Yes. I believe he felt that allowing my father to have his way in any form was unacceptable, and I have to say that I agree wholeheartedly.” 

“But what the bloody hell are you _doing_ here?” James asked. “If Norrington wanted to rescue me -”

Thomas grimaced.

“I’m afraid that in my haste to find the truth of your whereabouts I wasn’t as careful as I might have been.”

“You actually accused him of lying?” James asked, and Thomas shook his head.

“No,” he answered. “Although I was angry and frightened enough that I could have. I’m very proud of your bravery, James, but I must say I would rather not have come quite so close to having a stroke when I heard the news.”

James winced. 

“I’m sorry,” he answered. “I -”

Thomas waved him off. 

“No - don’t apologize. I’ve no doubt you did what was right.”

“There was no choice,” James said apologetically. “It was either stay there or -”

“I know,” Thomas said. “I spoke to Lieutenant Harris.”

James stopped speaking abruptly, staring at Thomas, who flushed.

“I needed information!” He defended. “There didn’t seem to be any other way that didn’t involve putting even more people in danger. It’s not as if I’m well acquainted with your circle of friends!”

James snorted.

“What friends?” he asked, and Thomas shot him a Look.

“Do stop exaggerating,” he admonished. “You may be a solitary creature by nature but neither are you Saint Gerasimus. Possibly the _lion_ -”

“I haven’t got a thorn in my paw, I’ve got a bloody headache and an injured leg,” James cut him off. “Don’t try to change the subject. You spoke to _Harris_? Jesus, Thomas. You might as well have stitched a flag and waved it around yelling ‘Admiral Hennessey is a liar.’ It wouldn’t have been any less subtle!”

“Yes, I realize that _now_ ,” Thomas said. “And you may not be a lion but you’re still terribly irritable when you’re injured, do you know that?” 

James couldn’t help it - he laughed at the wounded tone in Thomas’ voice, and a moment later Thomas joined him, the beginnings of the argument forgotten.

“I assume that your conversation with Harris ended predictably?” James asked dryly, and Thomas gave a rueful smile.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “To make a long story quite short, my father anticipated my plan to come and free you and attempted to have me committed to Bethlem Hospital as a last resort. Your friend Isaac intervened and here we are.” 

James felt the breath leave his lungs, and he stared at Thomas, dumbstruck. 

“You -” he started, and Thomas took hold of his hand, gripping it firmly.

“We made it out alive, together. That’s the bit that counts.” 

James shook his head, and regretted it a moment later.

“Thomas - Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “ _Bethlem_? He tried to have you sent to -” He stopped, looking his lover up and down, finding nothing obviously wrong. Still - he surveyed Thomas’ clothing and the room he lay in again, a suspicion forming. “Just how close was your escape?” he asked, and Thomas smiled tightly again.

“We left London in rather a hurry, I won’t deny,” he started to say, and James fixed him with his very best no-nonsense expression. He sighed. “If Lieutenant Jeffries hadn’t come when he did we wouldn’t be talking,” he admitted, and James felt a shudder travel down his spine. He stared at Thomas again and then, abruptly, he reached forward, wrapped both arms around the taller man, embracing him tightly. Thomas stiffened in surprise and then the tension ran out of him, and he returned the gesture, wrapping both arms around James gingerly, his face touching James’ bare shoulder. 

“I thought you were safe. I dreamt you had come to harm but I thought it was just a dream,” James said, “and instead - God, Thomas. I nearly lost you. He nearly -” He cut himself off. “I’ll kill the bastard,” he swore, gripping Thomas’ shoulders. “I’ll kill him for what he’s done to you - to all of us.”

“Right now, you couldn’t kill so much as a fly,” Miranda’s voice said from the doorway. “And much as I’m sure we all need to talk, James, you need to eat. You’ve been through worse than we have, and the soup will be cold soon.” She held out a tray and, as if on cue, James felt his stomach growl, sounding its agreement. 

James broke contact with Thomas for long enough to raise his face and return the gentle kiss that she favored him with, lifting his hands to cup her face and then run them down her arms, pulling her close even as she bent awkwardly to embrace him, handing the tray off to Thomas.

“Miranda,” he said, relieved to see her. She smiled, and sat down opposite her husband on the bed. 

“Thomas is right,” she said, dipping a spoon into the soup bowl. “We’re all here. We’re all alive. And while I share your anger at Alfred, this could all have turned out far worse than it has. We’ve left Admiral Norrington in London with sufficient information to attempt to remove Alfred from power, and until he manages to do so, we’ve more than enough to live on here.” She held up the spoon, loaded with what smelled like chicken soup, and offered it to James. “You can take it yourself or I can feed you,” she offered, and he reached out to take the spoon, giving her a look.

“I’m not _that_ weak,” he said, and Thomas nodded. 

“Yes, I’m sure you’re perfectly capable,” he said solemnly, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he nodded toward James’ shaking arm. “But I think it might be best if you _ate_ the soup rather than using it to wash with,” he added, and James glared. 

“I’m not a child, Thomas, I’m -” He was cut off by the skillful insertion of the spoon into his mouth, and he swallowed, turning back to glare at Miranda as the spoon was retracted. Her eyes glittered with mirth, and he crossed his arms.

“You’re injured,” Thomas said, giving his wife a semi-amused quelling look, and Miranda swallowed her grin. “I’ll leave you to it if you truly wish, but there’s no need to put on a show for us, James. If you’re not -”

James reached out and snatched the spoon out of Miranda’s hand, glaring without any real heat as he dropped it onto the tray and with a defiant smirk, raised the bowl to his lips and drank, hands shaking only slightly as he did so. Miranda rolled her eyes fondly, and Thomas chuckled even as James swallowed, his eyes closing in bliss at the taste of real, warm food.

“God, that tastes like absolute ambrosia,” he said, and Thomas smiled.

“I’ll leave you to it, then, “ he said, starting to rise. James reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling him back down.

“No - stay,” he entreated. “It’s been five months without either of you.” 

“We’ve missed you, too,” Miranda said. 

“Yes, I’d gathered that,” James said dryly. “Tell me about your conversation with Teach while I eat. I’m sure that’s a tale worth the telling.” 

“Well…”

****************************************************  
He made it out of his bed two days later.

Thomas, of course, had urged him to stay stationary for a while longer. He had taken one look at James’ gaunt face and promptly started feeding him with an absolutely alarming regularity, his expression a cross between horror and overwhelming anger when he spotted the way that James’ bones stuck out in places where before he had been hale and hearty, and had since made it his personal mission to nurse James back to full health. James had indulged him, happy to be safe, loved, and taken care of and to have Thomas and Miranda where he could be sure they were also safe, but now he found himself restless. He had undertaken this walk with the thought of getting out to see Nassau now that he was no longer a prisoner. Three months of seeing nothing but the worst the island had to offer had soured him to its charms, but now he recalled his first impression of the place. 

“It’s a lovely view,” Miranda said, seemingly hearing his thoughts. She was standing at his side, having insisted on coming with him if he would not allow himself the luxury of a long convalescence. 

“I certainly thought so when I first arrived,” James answered. They stood on a hill near the farmhouse they had been staying at, looking down on the small patch they had claimed as their own. “A little patch of Eden, for all I’d come to hate it. It’s certainly brighter than London.”

“It’s difficult to have rain when there are no clouds,” Miranda pointed out. “It’s warm. I find that I enjoy that.”

James nodded. “I suppose I’d better learn to like it, now that we’re all but exiled.”

“It might not be such a terrible thing,” Miranda murmured. “If you wish, you could start anew. The commission -”

“Came from Peter bloody Ashe,” James growled. “I’d sooner trust Teach than I would that miserable, traitorous fucking rat.” Miranda raised an eyebrow, and James winced. “Apologies,” he offered, quieter. “Being on this island seems to have affected my manners.” 

“We are no longer in England,” Miranda forgave, the corners of her mouth turning upward, “and you have been less than well.”

“I stand by what I said about Peter,” James said. “I won’t trust him to keep his word - not again.” 

Miranda smiled. 

“As it happens, I agree,” she said. “I’ve no desire to see you take his commission.” 

James breathed out a sigh. Still looking out over the hill, he leaned forward, resting his elbows against the nearest tall rock, looking away over the horizon.

“What is our plan here, Miranda?” he asked quietly. “We’re in a precarious position. We’ve no standing, no reputation save what you and Thomas have managed to gather with your little power play-”

“Don’t forget your own part,” Miranda reminded. “I’m very proud of you, by the way. It was masterfully done.” 

James gave her a small smile. 

“Theatrics aside,” he continued, “we need to decide our next actions carefully. Vane and England may be allies for now, but alliances shift quickly here, almost as quickly as they do in London. If we don’t secure a place for ourselves, and soon -”

He stopped, looking down at the hand that Miranda had placed on his arm.

“We’ll manage,” she assured him. “Thomas and I did not leave England entirely destitute. If we’re careful, we will have enough to live on until we can find another source of income and establish ourselves properly.”

“Miranda -”

“James,” she returned quietly but firmly. “No one is asking you to sit idle, but for your own sake, I am asking you to allow us - allow _me_ \- to take over the planning until you have recovered. You said it yourself - Vane and England currently stand as our allies, cemented by your own performance before the duel, which buys us some time. We are quite safe here for the moment, and rushing about like a chicken with its head cut off will benefit no one. Now - the lake is not far from here, and I would like you to walk me there before we turn round and head for home.”

“I’m not letting you and Thomas persuade me to become some kind of kept man,” he warned her, his voice only half-heartedly stern. “I’d like to have some kind of occupation somewhere in your plots.” 

“Housewifery is a perfectly acceptable occupation,” she protested. “You can do the mending and -” 

She laughed as he pulled her in for a kiss, silencing her teasing.

“If acceptable sewing skill were enough to make a housewife, there would be no sailors,” he said dryly. 

“Or rather every wife would be a pirate.” 

“No ship would ever offer resistance again.” Still laughing, they walked toward the lake, the warmth of the Nassau afternoon leaving a shimmering haze of heat in their wake.  
**************************************************************  
“So, you’re going to be living here now?” 

“I suppose so, yes.” Thomas stared in bemusement at the girl currently lounging on the back veranda, her limbs slung casually over the bench, blonde hair hanging down behind her. He had come out for some air and to contemplate his options. Now, it seemed, he had company. They had bought three chickens within days of arriving, but none of them had sounded any kind of alarm. So much for birds making good sentinels.

“You’re very lucky, you know,” the girl continued, her voice matter-of-fact. “This house is isolated - remote. The last owners were idiots to leave. They could have stayed on here and made a profit off the place if they’d had an ounce of sense.”

“I shall have to take your word for it, being a newcomer to the island, Miss -?”

The girl extended a hand to be shaken, sitting forward slightly.

“Eleanor Guthrie,” she introduced herself. “I heard someone had taken the place and thought I’d come have a look.”

“Guthrie? Any relation to the Boston Guthries?” 

“Not if you ask them,” she answered ironically, a touch of surprising bitterness coloring her young voice. “My father is the black sheep, I’m afraid. He moved Mother and I here years ago and left after the Rosario Raid. Grandfather still bankrolls him, of course, but that’s all.” She looked at Thomas with narrowing eyes. “You seem familiar. Have we met before?” 

“Perhaps, a long time ago,” Thomas answered. “You would have been very young indeed. I believe our families were acquainted with one another.” 

She frowned. “You have a name, I assume?” she asked, the rudeness of her tone belied by the curious flicker in her eyes.

“Thomas Barlow,” he answered, and she shook her head.

“No. The name isn’t -” She stopped, and looked at him again, then snorted. “Of course. Hiding like everyone else on this godforsaken island, I suppose,” she said, and he inclined his head.

“Each of us has their secrets, Miss Guthrie,” he answered. “I’d imagine you are not without yours - including the location of your chaperone, if such a thing exists here.” 

“Oh, it exists,” she assured him. “I’ve no doubt he’ll be hunting me down any minute, the tedious bastard.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow at the masculine pronoun, and Eleanor gave a groan.

“Oh, please. If you’re about to start in about manners -”

“Nothing of the kind, Miss Guthrie. This island is your home, after all.” She started, clearly taken aback, and looked at him again.

“You’re odd,” she accused. “Most men with an accent like yours would have fainted dead away by now.”

“Well, I’m glad to have surprised you, then,” Thomas answered. “You mentioned earlier that this place could be made to turn a profit. Pray tell me - if one wanted to go about doing it, what would be the best approach?” 

For a moment, she appeared nonplussed. The expression was gone almost as quickly as it had come, but it had been there - a moment of surprise, followed by pleasure at being consulted. She had not been expecting the question, he realized - too used to being overlooked. Miranda had more than once complained of the same, enough that he recognized the moment for what it was.

“You truly want to know?” she asked, and he nodded.

“Indeed I do.” 

Eleanor ran an appraising eye over the house. The girl, Thomas thought, reminded him more than a little of himself at the same age, minus, of course, the roughness of her manner. She had a father she evidently did not think highly of, too much time on her hands, and far too much intelligence to be trapped in a place such as this one. She gave him the same look she had just given the house, and then smiled.

“Not much grows here,” she started off. “You could be like Underhill and try to grow tobacco and fail at it miserably for a few years, but you’d do better to start off with citrus and sugar cane and raise livestock - pork and poultry, not beef, although you’ll need a milk cow or two. Herbs grow well enough, and Indian corn - you can sell those. Just don’t try to do anything like wheat or god forbid barley - nothing that grows in England. The soil here won’t support it. The crews on the beach will pay for good fruit - keeps them from getting scurvy at sea. You’re far enough inland that the pirates should leave you alone for the most part - you might get one or two opportunists, but a few hired hands will see them off easily enough. Your main trouble will be water, although if you dig deep enough you might be able to set up some kind of irrigation. If you’re smart and you’ve got the coin, you’ll buy one or two businesses in town and use the coin to supplement until you can start turning a profit out here. You might try talking to the butcher in town, and the tanner, particularly if you want to raise livestock. You've already made friends with Vane and Teach, so your shipments might even be safe for a time - safer than most, anyway.”

“A most thorough assessment,” he praised, and she gave him another startled look. “You’ve quite the business sense.” 

“It runs in the family,” she said slowly. “My father wanted a son to run the family business but -” She stopped, and Thomas felt something in him twist. A father that wanted another child altogether and a bright, lively young woman left to shift for herself. It struck a chord that was entirely too familiar.

“Tell me, Miss Guthrie,” he said. “Are you free for tea on Wednesday next? My wife, I think, will miss having feminine company now that we have moved away from London, and I believe the two of you might get on. I would also like to speak to you further about the island - get my bearings, so to speak.” He had been left to the dubious company of his brothers and the servants in his father’s house until he had gone off to school. He was quite determined that Eleanor Guthrie would not be left to the same lonely existence given her father’s apparent idiocy in leaving her here. 

She frowned.

“Your wife - she was the one that outmaneuvered Teach, yes?” He smiled fondly.

“Yes.” 

Eleanor nodded firmly. 

“I would like to meet her,” she decided. “And your lieutenant - the one you came here for. Vane’s talked of nothing but - I think he’s got an eye on recruiting him for his crew.” 

Thomas laughed. 

“That would take quite a lot of convincing,” he said. “Wednesday next, then, around one o’clock.” 

The girl rose, her motions still filled with the gangly unsteadiness of adolescence. 

“I’ll look forward to seeing you, Mr. Barlow,” she answered, and then she was off, walking away down the lane just as Miranda and James rounded the corner, laughing between themselves at something.

“A new neighbor?” Miranda questioned, and Thomas smiled.

“The daughter of one of the traders - Richard Guthrie. You remember him?”

“That terrible little weasel, Joseph’s son?” Miranda sounded surprised, brows drawing together.

“Hmm,” Thomas agreed. “His daughter outshines him by a mile. I’ve invited her ‘round for tea next Wednesday. Do you think we can unpack and settle in by then?”

“We can probably find the china, at least,” James joked, and Miranda grimaced. 

“Don’t remind me,” she fretted. “There might be four cups in the entire house, if I’ve gotten lucky and the servants did as I asked before we left. I have the terrible feeling I’m going to be buying the tea from Miss Guthrie herself.”

“From Miss Guthrie?” Thomas questioned. “She mentioned her father’s business but -”

“His business, which she and her faithful retainer Mr. Scott run here in Nassau in his absence,” Miranda said. 

“Business,” James snorted. “Call it what it is, Miranda. He’s a smuggler.”

“Regardless, Eleanor is a bright young woman. She had several good ideas about this place,” Thomas said firmly. 

“Oh?” James questioned, and Thomas smiled.

“Yes. How do the pair of you feel about becoming merchant farmers?”


	11. A Storm of Letters

December, 1705: 

_From William Hamilton to Thomas, formerly Lord Hamilton, presently an utter and complete idiot, New Providence Island:_

_Thomas,_

_I’m sending this letter in the hopes that it will reach you safely, and in the further hope that you will read it and realize what an utter, complete, wonderful idiot you are._

_You did it. You actually went and did it. I’m sitting here writing this letter with Father’s yelling still ringing in my ears, and I cannot seem to find the will to stop grinning like a buffoon._

_You’ve made him angry this time. If you had any ambitions of returning to England in the next decade or so, I would put them aside. He’s on the warpath, rampaging about the house, practically foaming at the mouth. I’m hopeful that this will be the stroke of fate that sends him to meet his Maker, but I fear even this won’t be sufficient - he’s pickled in his own piss and vinegar I’m afraid, far too much for him to do the decent thing and shuffle off this mortal coil._

_Robert sends his love and his congratulations (not actually his words, of course, but that’s what he means under the complaining and the muttering about duty and responsibility, so I felt I could paraphrase). For my part, I’m not sure if I am angry with you, or proud, or both. Given that you have made a clean break, so to speak, I suppose I will settle for the latter and simply say well done. Father hasn’t shared all the details, but from what I gather, you’re lucky to be safe, and I thank God for the ingenuity of both Miranda and our mutual friend who shall not be named herein. Much though I disapprove of your lack of prudence, I sincerely hope that you have gotten what you went for and that both Miranda and your much-talked-of naval officer are reading this now. If so, James, welcome to the family (and I now realize that that approaches a curse rather than a blessing of any kind. My condolences, I suppose). Take care of each other, and keep in touch. I’ll find a way to receive your letters without too much fuss if you simply address them to the country house._

_Your brother,_

_William_

******************************************************************  
March, 1706:

_Lieutenant Isaac Jeffries to James McGraw, New Providence Island:_

_James,_

_To start with, I’m glad you’re alive and well, and bloody furious at you for putting yourself in such danger to begin with. Forcing me to play a part in it was particularly unacceptable. You’re bloody lucky that both Lord Hamilton and I refused to give up on you, you damned stubborn, self-sacrificing, noble, honorable, brazen fool, and if you ever try something of the like again I reserve the right to come in person and beat some sense back into you. As it is, I can only regret that I was unable to do so this time. I confess I had my doubts about sending Thomas to rescue you, but he seems from your account to have done admirably well, and for that he has my gratitude. Tell him it was well done from me, and that any debt between us is now squared. You will have to describe in your next letter how in the world he and his lady wife managed to win over such hardened criminals to their cause, as your last was (understandably, given your present condition) a bit vague on the details of your rescue. I confess I have little enough interest in politics, but the image of he and Lady Hamilton facing down Edward Teach himself is a striking one._

_As to your request for the retrieval of your things, I regret to inform you that Admiral Hennessey has claimed them as the closest thing you have to legal family. I am no more pleased with him than I imagine you are, but I cannot help but think it is cruelty unbecoming you and I both to force him to imagine you dead when you are not. Please, James - let me tell him, if not for his sake then for mine, as serving under the man while keeping such an enormous secret puts me in an untenable position. You might also consider the fate of your poor, much abused, much beloved sea chest. I know how you feel about the wretched thing, for reasons I cannot fathom, having had the worst of all grandfathers. I would hate to see you parted from it permanently._

_Take care of yourself - I know you’re not telling me the half of what you’ve been through, but then you never do. I look forward to hearing from you again soon._

_With sincere relief,_

_Isaac_  
*********************************************************  
_“Please, James - let me tell him, if not for his sake then for mine, as serving under the man while keeping such an enormous secret puts me in an untenable position.”_

Isaac stared at the line again, frowning. It sounded better this time but - 

It would have to do. He was not going to tell James that his superior officer cum father was in the process of drinking himself to death from guilt. There was nothing he could do, and besides, regardless of what Hennessey had done, he could not bear to take the older man’s dignity from him in that fashion. He scratched a few more lines - some lighthearted nonsense about James’ sea chest and an entreaty to take care, and then stood, allowing the letter to remain sitting on his desk to dry. He looked around the cabin and sighed. He also had not mentioned his promotion to James, and he did not intend to - not for some time, anyway. It should have belonged to his friend as the First Lieutenant, not to Isaac, and he had no desire to rub salt into the wound. Into any of James’ wounds, and he winced at the mental image created. He was not sure, now, whether he was glad he had not gone to Nassau or freshly angry at having been forced to stay, and regardless, the question was largely academic, as there was nothing to be done at this late stage in the game.

As if his thoughts had been made manifest, a knock sounded on his door, and he stood.

“Come,” he called, and his first lieutenant opened the door, sticking his head into the cabin.

“Beg your pardon, Captain, but the Admiral’s sent word. He wishes to see you in his office.”

“Admiral Norrington?” The man nodded.

“Yes, Sir. He seemed in a bit of a mood. Sir.” 

Isaac nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. Jennings. That will be all.” 

“Sir.”  
********************************************  
“It won’t do, Jeffries. Someone’s got to do something.” Lawrence Norrington's voice echoed across the study, and Isaac stood, puzzled and trying not to comment on Norrington's obvious agitation.

“Sir?”

Norrington turned, gesturing with one hand.

“About _Hennessey_ , damn it! You know what he’s been doing for the past three months?” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“Is the man _trying_ to confound me, or does he just manage to do it through his own damnably poor judgment?” 

“With all due respect, Sir - he believes Lieutenant McGraw to be dead. It’s hit him hard. Sir.” 

“If he wanted McGraw to live, then he should not have abandoned him in the first place,” Norrington snapped. “Speaking of whom - has there been any word?” 

Jeffries silently held out the letter he had received earlier that day, and Norrington read it over, eyes scanning eagerly over the text. 

“They’re alive, then,” he said, sounding satisfied. “Excellent.”

“I believe James wants his survival kept a secret for now, Sir,” Jeffries said tentatively, and Norrington nodded.

“Yes. That’s probably for the best. Still -” 

“Sir?” 

“We need support if we’re to deal with Ashbourne, not to mention his allies in Parliament, and I would rather not be guarding our every word spoken. It would appear that Ashbourne is done with Hennessey for the moment - doubly so since he has become less than useful over the past several months. If we could persuade him to climb out of the bottle -”

“He could help,” Isaac finished, and Norrington nodded.

“Yes. The enemy of my enemy, and all that. I don’t like it, but -”

“The Admiral deserves a second chance,” Isaac agreed. “Do you think he’d come on board?” 

“We need allies, and say what you will about Hennessey - he’s a damned fine tactician. Convince him, Jeffries.”

“Sir.”  
****************************************  
He found the Admiral at the tavern.

It was, he knew, one of the man’s regular haunts, although in past years it had not been so much accustomed to his presence when he elected to spend the night talking with one of his officers while not at sea. Now, though, Hennessey’s table had a rather… lived-in look that suggested that he had been sitting there for some time. His hat sat at the table next to him, and there was an empty bottle sitting nestled in a corner, while its twin, still largely full, sat by the Admiral’s elbow. He was sitting, staring into the distance, and Isaac winced when he realized that no glass accompanied either bottle, the Admiral apparently having reverted to his less gentlemanly roots to drink straight from the bottle. 

“Sir?” He approached the older man from the front. “Do you mind if I sit down?” 

Hennessey looked up at him, his eyes red-rimmed. 

“Do as you like,” he slurred. “You’re no lieutnenent of mine anymore.”

Jeffries winced again and sat. 

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he offered quietly. “I didn’t want to leave your service. You left me no choice.” 

“No,” Hennessey admitted. “You’re a good lad. James always -” He stopped, and took a deep, shuddering breath. “He was always a good lad too,” he whispered, and then he reached for the bottle, taking another drink of what appeared to be either whiskey or rum.

“Sir -” Jeffries tried again, and Hennessey’s gaze landed on him again, baleful this time and tinged with something approaching loathing.

“Be gone,” he spat. “Unless you’ve something useful to say -”

“I have, as a matter of fact,” Isaac interrupted. Hennessey gave him a skeptical look, and Jeffries sat up straight. He would not be intimidated by this man, and he would not leave without fulfilling Norrington’s orders.

“I’ve come to collect you, Sir,” he said, and Hennessey raised an eyebrow.

“Collect me?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir. You’re wanted. I’m to tell you that if you’d like to be useful to your country, there’s work that needs doing. And -” 

He hesitated. James had not given him permission, but waiting to hear from him could take three months. They did not have that kind of time.

“This arrived this morning.” 

He laid the letter down beside Hennessey. The older man’s eyes scanned over the letter blearily. He took in the fine paper, the handwriting -

And suddenly the harmless drunk was gone, replaced by the man who had made his name fighting pirates on the Barbary coast. He looked up at Jeffries, eyes suddenly sharp.

“This is James’ hand,” he said, his words no longer slurred. Jeffries nodded.

“Yes, Sir.”

“He’s alive.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

Hennessey sat up, and Jeffries took a step back. The Admiral, he suddenly realized, was not nearly as drunk as he appeared - not judging by the sudden straightness of his back and the crafty glint in his eye, and Isaac abruptly realized that he had miscalculated, and badly.

“Mr. Jeffries,” Hennessey said. “It seems we have much to discuss.” The older man corked the bottle of whiskey sitting by his elbow, and stood, without the slightest trace of a wobble. He picked up the letter, handed it to Jeffries, and reached for his hat, placing it on his head with a care for his wig that Isaac had yet to learn.

“Yes, Sir. It would seem so,” Isaac answered, and Hennessey scoffed.

“You didn’t truly think I’d climbed into the bottle, did you, boy?” he asked, and Isaac gave him an uncertain smile.

“You put on a very good show, Sir,” he answered, and Hennessey grinned.

“Good,” he said smugly. “If you were fooled, then I may trust that Ashbourne’s lackeys were as well. Now. Tell me what you and Lawrence are up to.” 

************************************************  
_Edit to the above letter:_

_James - I hope you will forgive me, but I’ve told Admiral Hennessey you live. I’ll explain the details in my next letter, but suffice to say that the crafty old fox missed his calling and should have been an actor. He does a very good maudlin drunk._  


_Isaac_  
***************************************************  
April, 1706:

_From Admiral Alexander Hennessey to James McGraw, late of the Royal Navy, New Providence Island:_

_James -_

_I received word today that you are safe and well, and while I confess that I might have liked to hear it from you, I am aware that I have forfeited the right for you to think of me with any kind of fondness. I could offer reasons for my actions, but I am further aware that they would be both trite and do little to put things to rights between us. James, I -_

_*Several lines have been scratched out. There is a word that seems to have started life as an imprecation before being crossed out rather poorly.*_

_I am sorry. There it is. I did what I had to for the preservation of her Majesty’s Navy, but it does not excuse my conduct toward you. I swore once to protect you, and I have done nothing resembling it in the past few months. If you do not wish to answer this letter I will understand, but know that I took no pleasure in my actions, and that I forgive yours, despite the selfish nature of your involvement with Lord Hamilton. It was poorly done, but after speaking with the young lord, I must admit that I cannot fault your judgment as it relates to him. You were right - he is, against all odds, a good man, although of the pair of you, I am not sure which is the more reckless._

_James, do you realize the full measure of the catastrophe you and your young lordling nearly brought crashing down on all of us? Do you have any notion the sheer, unbridled stupidity of -_

_(Here several lines appear to have been crossed out once again.)_

_I told you, son. I warned you what Alfred Hamilton was capable of, and still I find myself utterly appalled at the lack of care you have shown. He had the entirety of her Majesty’s Navy in his palm - the pyres built, nooses twisted, his witch hunt ready to start, with you as the first of a long line of men he would have seen arrested or worse without so much as the blink of an eye. The whole of the Empire, about to go up in flames, and all because you and Lord Hamilton could not - would not - exercise even the barest margin of discretion or tact. Tell me, boy - what will it take for you to stop walking up to the biggest bully in the school yard and punching him right on the nose for the satisfaction of it? You do realize that had you taken but one moment to engage your brain rather than allowing your anger to rule you -_

_No. I am certain that, with the events of the past few months behind you, you will have learned your lesson. You were never a stupid child, and I must hope that you have not entirely left off picking things up with alarming speed. And while I cannot help but mourn the loss of a promising career, I must say that I am glad you are well and truly removed from the political circuit. You were never one for the intricate deceptions required to play the Game, and that I did not see it in time is a discredit to me, not to you. You must forgive an old man his dynastic delusions._

_I send with this letter your things, including that horrid, battered excuse for a sea chest that you insist on retaining. I believe that a thorough perusal may turn up something which I believe will be of use to you and may help to amend some of the wrong I have done you. Be well, James, and above all else - beware Alfred Hamilton. The spider may be quiet for the moment, but not for long. I fear the blow you have dealt to his ego may spur him to new heights of malevolence the likes of which I can only shudder to imagine. Watch your back, as I will continue to watch it from where I sit, and perhaps one day we may meet and bury our differences properly over a snifter. Give Lady Hamilton my regards, if you will, and tell her I wish her luck with the pair of you._

_I remain,_

_Admiral Alexander Hennessey_  
*********************************************  
“The absolute nerve of the man beggars belief.” 

The quiet mutter caught Thomas’ attention, and he turned, his search for James coming to an abrupt stop.

“James?” 

“I’m in here,” came the answer, and Thomas poked his head through the door, taking in James where he stood at the desk in their makeshift study - more a corner of the house walled off by the shelves they had acquired somewhere than a room in itself. He was holding Admiral Hennessey’s letter, fingers working to straighten one corner. 

“Is everything alright?” Thomas asked, and James crumpled the letter, his hand tightening around the paper convulsively before releasing it again. He took a deep breath, and Thomas gave him a commiseratory smile.

“As bad as all that?” Thomas asked, and James held the letter out to him wordlessly.

Thomas came to join him, eyes skimming over the letter as he took it from James’ hand.

“Quite the accusation,” he said. “The Admiral certainly doesn’t gild the lily, does he?” 

“He never has.” James’ tone was bleak. “I’ve never known him to be other than direct in his communications.”

“Distressingly so, it would seem,” Thomas agreed. “Still - it’s not exactly a ringing condemnation, is it?” 

James looked at him incredulously.

“The bastard left me to die, Thomas, and now he has the temerity to write this?” he demanded. “Glad you’re alive, son, despite my best attempts,” he mocked. “Maybe some day you’d like to have a brandy and apologize for falling in love?” He snorted. “I think not.” 

Thomas smiled fondly and leaned over, kissing his lover’s temple. 

“No. For that there can be no apologies, and if the Admiral cannot understand, then I pity him.” 

James turned, the corner of his mouth curling upward. 

“He did have the grace to apologize,” he admitted. “That’s something.” 

“It’s a very great something,” Thomas agreed. More than he could ever hope to receive from his own sire. The bitterness that washed over him at the thought was a familiar burden by now. He’d had four months to think over the events of Christmas 1705, and the feeling of betrayal and hurt had yet to dull any. That he had nearly ended up in Bedlam, and all for the crime of wanting to do the right thing - no. It still defied all reason and all reconciliation. 

“Thomas - if you want to talk -” James offered, seeming to read his mind, and Thomas sighed. 

“No,” he answered. “I’d rather put the whole wretched experience behind me and forget that Alfred Hamilton exists, but that’s not really an option, is it?” 

“No,” James agreed, green eyes sorrowful as he laid the letter back down on the desk.

“I suppose I should be grateful,” Thomas said. “I used to want to please him, you know. I suppose every son must want to make their father proud. No matter how horrible he was I could never quite bring myself to truly defy him until now. I kept hoping that eventually he would -” He swallowed against the hard something that had welled up in his throat. He was not going to weep over this - not now, not ever again, not over Alfred. “It’s ridiculous, I know, but I kept hoping he would come ‘round,” he finished, and James shook his head.

“It’s not ridiculous. The ungrateful bastard never understood what he was throwing away,” he answered. “ _Knowing_ he’s an ungrateful bastard can’t make it any easier to accept.” 

Thomas shook his head.

“No, it doesn’t.” 

James wrapped an arm around his waist, and Thomas leaned into the comforting warmth, his head leaning against James’. It was odd, he thought. He had spent the entirety of his adult life ridiculing and railing against his father’s stodgy, conservative, repressively traditional values and yet now, when he was finally free of the man, he could not help but feel the sting of it, despite Alfred’s lifelong hatred for his son. 

“Hennessey’s right, you know,” James said. “He won’t let this go.” His voice was quiet, but the words still sent anger coursing through Thomas. Of course he wouldn’t. Alfred Hamilton could never just leave Thomas alone - could never allow him to be happy, not for long, like Cronos gone mad, obsessed with consuming his son utterly. He shook his head. That myth did not end well for Cronos, and he was determined that Alfred’s efforts would prove similarly fruitless.

“No, I don’t expect he will,” he admitted. “Still - he’s an ocean away now. Whatever he does -”

“Will come with all the less warning because of that distance,” James warned, and Thomas grimaced, sitting up straighter.

“I know. I can only hope that Admiral Norrington will be successful.” 

James shook his head, moving away to sit down at the desk.

“I still can’t believe that Lawrence Norrington has decided to pull his head out of his noble arse to help us,” he said. “The man spent half my career with the Navy ridiculing Hennessey for taking me on, saying I’d never amount to anything, and now -”

“You know, that may be the first and only time my father’s ever brought out the best in anyone,” Thomas joked, and James snorted, startled laughter making its way out of his mouth. 

“Apparently one arse can’t stand another.” 

At this, Thomas could not help but chuckle, and the chuckle soon led to full-blown laughter, and it was a puzzled Miranda who discovered the pair of them, still laughing weakly ten minutes later.

“What have the two of you found to discuss that is so amusing?” she asked, a fond smile working its way onto her face at seeing her men leaning on each other, red-faced, tears of laughter streaming from their eyes.

“Proctology,” James managed to get out, and then they were lost again, looking at each other and snickering. Miranda shook her head.

“If I sit down and attempt to trace the beginning of this conversation, am I going to regret it?” she asked, and Thomas shook his head.

“No. Well - possibly,” he admitted. 

“Probably,” James snorted, and Miranda rolled her eyes.

“When you two manage to stop giggling like schoolboys, there is a well wall that needs your attention,” she informed them. “Take your time.” 

“You know, you could join us,” Thomas offered, and she raised an eyebrow. 

“The study is a little small,” she pointed out. 

“Well,” James said. “Then we’ll have to move this discussion to the bedroom.” His smile was wicked, and Thomas felt his own mouth twitching, a smile forming on his face as he watched James and Miranda have a silent duel, her responsibility warring with the amusement that was slowly winning at the look of both challenge and promise on James’ face. 

“The well can wait,” James murmured, and finally Miranda smiled, her shoulders shaking as she finally gave up the ghost of her attempt at pretense.

“Oh, very well, you win,” she answered, curling her arm around his as he rose and caught Thomas’ hand, pulling him to his feet as well. 

“That,” James murmured against her ear, “was remarkably easy.” 

“Yes, it was,” she agreed, and gave him an impish smile, laughing as she darted away from the swat he directed at her backside. 

“Temptress,” he accused with a smile. Thomas, meanwhile, reached forward and planted a kiss on the corner of her mouth, his hands wrapping around her waist. She raised her chin, her lips meeting his and sucking at his lower lip, sending heat running through him. He groaned when she pulled away, and she laughed.

“Come on,” she urged, and the three of them worked their way down the hallway, kissing and working at shirt buttons as they did so, leaving a trail of clothing behind them that ended at the bedroom door, which Thomas had just enough presence of mind to close before allowing James and Miranda to pull him down onto the bed and envelop him in sensation.  
*************************************  
“He was right, you know,” James mused, later. “There would have been a witch hunt. Between the three of us, we’d have managed to bring down the British Empire.” 

“Hardly the first time an empire would have been brought down by its own ridiculous laws,” Miranda observed in a low murmur. “Still. If ever I need an idea of where to start -”

“Ready to take on the whole Empire over us?” he asked half-jokingly. 

“Yes,” Miranda answered, her expression utterly serious. “In a heartbeat, without so much as a backwards glance. And if Alfred had succeeded in taking either of you from me -” She shook her head. “There is not world enough for him to hide.” The look in her eyes was sober, a promise contained therein that James probably should have found alarming and instead found bizarrely comforting. He sat up straight, the laughter fading out of his eyes to match hers.

“Thank you,” he said seriously.

“What on Earth for?” 

“For coming for me. For not letting Alfred have his way. I know I haven’t said it near often enough, but I am grateful. I -”

Miranda shushed him, taking his hand in hers in a gesture he had often used himself.

“You’re welcome,” she said simply.  


“How are you holding up?” he asked. “I know these last few months can’t have been easy. Not after what happened.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she admitted. “They weren’t. Leaving London - coming here - it’s -” She looked downward, and when she looked up again, there were unshed tears shining in her eyes. She smiled, the corners of her mouth not quite invested in the gesture, wobbling ever so slightly. “It’s an adjustment,” she said, and James winced. 

“Miranda -” 

She held up a hand.

“No,” she said. “Don’t. I’ll be fine.” The tone of her voice gave the lie to her words, and James could not help but reach for her, his hand coming to rest at her waist.

“Miranda,” he started. “There’s no need to -”

She shook her head.

“James, if I begin crying now, there will be no stopping me,” she warned. “Let it go. Please.” 

On a different night, he might have insisted - might have kept digging until he got to the root of her sorrow, but that was not what tonight was about. Tonight was meant to be about comfort and so when she pressed her lips together, looking to the side, he allowed it, giving her the few silent moments it took to gather herself again.

“Thank you,” she acknowledged and he nodded.

“How will your family take it?” he asked finally. It was not the real problem, but it would do to take at least part of the load off her shoulders. She laughed shakily, dabbing at her eyes with one corner of the sheet.

“My family,” she echoed. “My mother will be appalled. She’s no doubt already making excuses to the respectable aunts and cousins, telling them I’ve gone to the Continent or taken it into my head to move to Boston. My father -” She shook her head. “If I know him at all, he will already be negotiating with Alfred for the return of my dowry. They’ll claim I was deliberately tricked into marrying a madman. He might even be pleased to sever the alliance, although he was always fond enough of Thomas.” 

“You have a sister, don’t you?” 

“Helena,” Miranda said with a smile. “Yes. I don’t expect she’ll be happy with me, but it’s not as though she’ll be surprised, either. We’ve always been close.”

“Will you write to her?” 

“I may,” she answered. “In a few months time, when she’s had time to process.” 

James smiled, and she shifted slightly in an attempt to be closer to him, then winced.

“You know,” she said. “I might have an easier time of adjusting if we were to find a way to replace this bed.”

James laughed, and beside them, Thomas roused, woken from slumber by Miranda’s movement.

“Are you two still talking?” he asked sleepily.

“Not for much longer, dear,” Miranda assured him, and he blinked.

“Oh,” he said. “Good. If you’re going to plan to overthrow the Empire you should really do it in daylight.” With that, he rolled over and went back to sleep, leaving James and Miranda to snicker quietly.

“Do you think he’ll remember that in the morning?” Miranda asked.

“No,” James answered. “Good night, Miranda.”

“Good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had posted this chapter and then part of it snuck up and bit me so hard I had to edit the thing and repost with the added scene. Mea Culpa!
> 
> Also, before anyone says anything about the misspelling during the scene with Hennessey and Isaac - it's quite deliberate. He's playing drunk, after all.
> 
> Comments are loved and appreciated and they keep me writing!


	12. The Deep Breath Before the Plunge

_September, 1706_ :

“I can’t believe it’s finished already.”

James turned and offered Eleanor a smile, wiping the sweat off his brow with one sleeve as he did so. It was a hot, sunny day, and he had been working for several hours. Eleanor held out a cup of water and he took it, draining it within seconds.

“Amazing what a little hard work will accomplish,” he answered, gesturing toward the house, which stood, the new paint on it gleaming in the afternoon sun.

“I suppose Thomas is inside?”

James shook his head.

“No. He and Miranda decided to finish the painting in the back as well, now that the repairs are completed.” Eleanor raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking upwards.

“And you expect them to actually do a decent job of it?”

“I haven’t heard any cries for help yet,” James answered, and she laughed. She turned to survey the house once again, and nodded.

“It looks nice,” she said. “But you know none of it will do any good if Captain Teach still rules in Nassau.” James grimaced.

“You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “But since I have no means of forcing him to leave -”

“Since you don’t, and I do, it’s best to leave it to me,” she answered, and James turned sharply.

“No,” he said firmly, and Eleanor raised her eyebrow at him again.

“Oh, so you would rather have all this work go to waste when that fucking animal down there destroys any prospect of trade? You would rather -”

“I would rather not see you become involved in a dogfight with a man who has several more years of experience and infinitely more resources than you do,” James cut her off. “Thomas and I will deal with Captain Teach.”

“When?” Eleanor demanded. “When he’s already ruined what you’re building? When you’ve already lost the support of Vane and England? Teach has to go - now. We’ve already laid the groundwork -”

“Vane is still loyal to Teach and England has run off to greener pastures until Hornigold stops being angry at him for shaking the hornets’ nest,” James pointed out. “I wouldn’t count on their support right now.” 

“The loss of England makes Teach all the more vulnerable!” Eleanor insisted. “Vane can be persuaded to help us. You’ve seen that yourself!”

“And how do you propose to shift him?” James asked flatly. “How exactly do you intend to force Edward Teach to leave New Providence? Eleanor -” He started, and a mulish expression settled onto the girl’s face.

“If you won’t assist, then I’ll do it myself,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be,” Thomas said from behind her, and she whirled.

“Thomas,” she greeted, reaching out to embrace him, and he raised an eyebrow even as he returned the hug.

“What’s this I hear about plotting to oust Captain Teach?”

Eleanor raised her chin, her blue eyes flashing in the sun.

“I’m planning on driving the bastard into the sea, or would be, if everyone would stop arguing and help me,” she answered, and Thomas blinked.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit much to be contemplating before lunch?” he asked, and Eleanor stared at him, some of the defiance going out of her stance.

“I - have you heard a word I’ve said?” she asked.

“Oh, I’ve heard you,” Thomas said. “And it’s not that it’s a bad idea - far from it, but don’t you think -”

“I’ve thought it through,” she defended. “Teach is here because he has the support to be here. The other captains on the island allow him to rule over them. If they stopped supporting him - if he suddenly owned a lot less of the island - he would have to either fight or leave. If I strip away his support -”

“How?” Thomas asked, and she took a deep breath.

“That’s where I’ll need your help,” she answered. “You’ve been buying property here on the island over the past few months - enough that between the two of us, we could do this. We make a deal with the captains. Discounted rates on their goods if they sell to us, not Teach, and substantial bribes for the ones that won’t flip. We’ll need to take the fort from him as well. I haven’t quite worked that part out yet -”

“Offer it to Hornigold,” James offered. “He can sit there and protect the bay.” Eleanor turned to him and gestured.

“You see?”

“Captain Hornigold,” Thomas interjected. “You know, I never did meet him when we were negotiating with Teach to come and rescue you. I wonder what happened to him?”

Behind him, Miranda snorted, and he turned.

“Something funny, dear?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“No. Nothing at all.” He frowned, obviously puzzled, and James made a mental note to ask Miranda about it later.

“I’ve heard worse ideas,” Thomas admitted, coming back to the topic at hand.

“In return, of course, I’d be willing to sell your goods myself - no need for you to transport them further than the town,” Eleanor said. “Or, if you prefer, I could offer you protection. You would never have a shipment stolen from you by any crew selling their cargo through me. I could even point you in the direction of a crew that would be willing to go legitimate. There’s at least one in port now.”

James shook his head.

“What happens when he sends Vane in to deal with you?” he demanded. “When he decides that he’s had enough of being challenged?”

“Leave Vane to me,” Eleanor said, and Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she said, and James crossed his arms, giving her a Look.

“You’re fifteen,” he reminded her. “You’ll forgive me if I doubt your ability to wrangle one of the best fighters on the island.”

“Sixteen,” she said firmly. “Look. I’m going to do this. I would like your support, but in the end, I’ll do it by myself if I must. You gentlemen can stand here and act as if the affairs of the beach don’t affect all of us, but -”

“I think what James means to say is that we’ll support you in any way we can but that you must be prepared for Captain Teach to fight back,” Thomas offered. “I’m not a stranger to terrible ideas, Eleanor, or the consequences when they fall through, and I would rather not see you fall victim to your own schemes. Trust me - there is a price that comes with idealism.”

“This is different,” she argued. “Look around! This island is a shit-hole, and it’s gotten there because of Teach and his allies.”

“Have you at least tried talking to Captain Teach about the matter?” Thomas asked reasonably, and Eleanor snorted.

“Yes. All he did was spout some ridiculous bullshit about, ‘the lion has no den.’” She rolled her eyes, and James did his very best not to snicker at her imitation of Teach’s voice. “If the Spanish return, this place won’t stand a chance in hell of defending itself, and everyone on this island will pay for it. The fort’s a complete mess. There’s absolutely nothing keeping them off that beach except their fear of the men on it, and that can’t last forever. You can’t tell me you’re comfortable sitting back and allowing this to continue. Go ahead. Tell me I’m wrong,” she challenged, and Thomas frowned, his gaze intensifying. Miranda came forward to put an arm around the girl’s shoulders, which she shrugged off.

“What?” she demanded.

“That’s what this is about, then?” Thomas asked. Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, and she took a stomping step forward.

“They killed my mother,” she snapped. “You’re fucking right that’s what this is about. I’m not letting them come through here again, burning and pillaging and raping and -” She stopped, tears coming to her eyes. “I was in the same house,” she whispered. “If they’d known I was there -”

Thomas started to reach forward, and Eleanor held up a hand, pointer finger extended.

“Do not hug me,” she warned. “I didn’t come here for sympathy.”

“No. Of course not,” Miranda said, lowering her hand to her side again. “You realize of course that you are talking of not only buying him out of significant portions of property but of suborning his allies, some of whom will, of course, have second thoughts when they burn through their bribes.”

“Well I can’t bloody sit here and hope that he’ll shift of his own accord, can I?” Eleanor demanded.

“No, but we must make sure that you are protected and ready for such eventualities,” Miranda answered. The older woman placed a hand on her shoulder again, and gently guided her toward the house. “Come. Let’s discuss it over a pot of tea.”

She walked away, Eleanor in tow, and James and Thomas stood, watching them go.

“Did I just hear you play the voice of reason?” James’ tone was wry, and Thomas turned.

“Yes, I think so,” he said, making a face. “Apparently I am capable of it. I must confess, I don’t know that I enjoy the feeling.”

James snorted.

“You know she won’t listen,” he said, and Thomas sighed.

“Yes. She’s set her mind on it now, and she’s quite as stubborn as you are when she gets an idea in her head.”

“It might not be a bad thing,” James said speculatively. “If she succeeds -”

“If she survives, you mean. She’s sixteen years old, James. And I don’t know that I like the notion of routing Teach from his stronghold or inviting a confrontation with him when he’s done nothing to me that I can think of.”

“Nothing to you, no,” James said. “Two months in a cell, Thomas,” James reminded him at Thomas’ inquisitive look. “Two months with no blanket, only what food they could be arsed to throw my way when it had gone stale or gotten infested, and no one to talk to.” Thomas’ eyes had gone harder at every word.

“That was Teach’s doing?” he asked, and James nodded.

“Yes.”

“Then I suppose I do have a bone to pick with him after all, don’t I?” Thomas said evenly.

“And he’s grown complacent,” James pointed out. “Dangerously so. She has a point. The island’s not safe with Teach determined to let its defenses go completely to rot. If she succeeds - if we succeed - we can begin to build something here - something lasting, and it won’t rely on the British government to survive. A self-governing, self-sufficient Nassau. Think of it.”

“Now who’s the dreamer?” Thomas asked, and James smiled.

“Well, someone has to be, and since you’ve become the practical one -” he said, and Thomas flicked paint at him.

“Perish the thought,” he said, and James snorted and wiped the paint off his face. “And speaking of perishing, it is entirely too hot to be doing this. Come on. Let’s see if we can’t get a cup of tea.”

Together, they turned back toward the house, hands entwining as they worked their way down the path.  
************************************************  
_Four hours later_ :

“Alright,” James demanded, “what did you do to him?” The question had been bothering him all day, and now, in their bed, the day done, Miranda nestled between him and Thomas, he had to know the answer. 

Next to him in the bed, Miranda turned, her very best innocent expression on her face. It was very good indeed - all injured sensibilities and shock, but James knew better, and he regarded her with his very best stern officer face for about half a minute until she broke and started to giggle.

“Why, nothing!” she answered. “I’ve never met Captain Hornigold, although I’ve certainly heard enough about him in the past few months.” She snorted in laughter again, and he gave her a look.

“Truly!” she protested, finally managing to suppress her grin. “Although I may have had a word with Netta, who I believe had a word with Captain Hornigold shortly before Thomas was to meet with him. I’m told the poor man was ill the rest of the night and couldn’t rouse himself to raise a fuss until you were already out of danger and Captain Martel disposed of. Such a shame but in the end -”

“You gave him the shits so he would stay out of the way,” he summed up, and Miranda nodded. James couldn’t help it - he laughed, and Miranda smiled warmly at him.

“You _poisoned_ Captain Hornigold?!” Thomas exclaimed, rising onto one elbow, sounding shocked. “Miranda!”

“Not I!” she protested again, laughing. “I merely mentioned to Netta that we both stood to lose considerably if hostilities were permitted to boil over due to Captain Hornigold’s reluctance to act. And suggested that perhaps Captain Hornigold could benefit from the same remedy for indigestion she had just purchased for Captain Teach that morning.”

“That’s what that was about!” Thomas exclaimed, and Miranda nodded.

“You are wicked,” James laughed, and she grinned.

“What of Netta if Captain Teach is driven from the island?” Thomas asked, and Miranda sat up.

“Providing Eleanor follows the plan we discussed, then nothing at all should happen to her,” she answered. “Save perhaps her growing richer than she is now. She need not even lose Teach if she plays her cards right.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?” he asked, lips turning upward in a smile.

“Indeed,” Miranda answered. “It’s a rather elegant little scheme if I do say so myself.”

“How on Earth did you convince Eleanor to accept a solution where she is not solely in charge of the island?”

“I pointed out that it would be more cost-effective and less dangerous if she did not have to spend several weeks or months putting the brothel back in order - if the current Madame were already working in conjunction with her and could offer certain - incentives to any man thinking of returning to his previous loyalties,” Miranda answered. “She agreed to encourage Netta to remain by offering her a share of the profits from trading with the captains on the beach in return for the leads and services she can offer. She retains the power that she has come to enjoy, and gains a way to step out from under Teach’s shadow.”

“You,” Thomas said, kissing her temple, “are a goddess. Minerva herself could not be more shrewd.”

She smiled, and James wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him to do the same on the other side. 

“That,” she said, “is a hideous exaggeration. But thank you.”

*********************************************  
_January, 1707_ :

“You realize that the Guthrie girl is winning?” Edward England asked casually. He sat forward, taking a drink of his ale, and Vane grunted noncommittally. England looked at him incredulously. He imitated the grunt, and then gestured at Vane.

“She’s in the process of forcing Teach to concede and that’s all you have to say? Are you planning on doing anything about it?”

Vane took a drag on his cigar, and then sat back in his chair, flashing England a grin. He wasn’t really feeling all that nonchalant, but England didn’t need to know that.

“Yeah. I’m planning on going down to the whorehouse, finding myself some company, and letting her get about it.”

England stared, and Vane raised an eyebrow.

“What? You expected me to stand up for Teach?”

“He’s your mentor,” England pointed out. “I hadn’t realized you felt so strongly about the incident with Martel.”

“It’s not about that,” Vane argued. “Teach eventually backed me up on that - just took some convincing. Nah. This is about now.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I think it’s probably time I found out what I could do on my own, don’t you? He’s not going to allow that - not while he needs me here to be his enforcer. He goes - I’m free to do as I like in my own ship.”

England looked at him incredulously.

“A ship? That’s what she promised you? A whole ship with the rigging and sheets and all?”

Vane nodded.

“Hornigold kicks Teach out of the fort. She gives Hornigold the fort and a share of the profits, and in return, he supports her and gives me the _Ranger_.”

England gave a low whistle.

“Have you told Teach that yet?”

Vane flashed him an annoyed look.

“Wasn’t planning on it. You planning on telling him you’re back from Africa?”

“I thought I’d come back quietly and keep out of the whole fucking mess,” England admitted. “As long as he doesn’t connect the _Cassandra_ with me, I’ll be able to watch him sail out of here.”

Vane snorted. 

“You’ll need a new quartermaster,” England pointed out, and Vane grinned.

“Already found one. Well - stumbled across him having a quick fuck behind the galley.”

“No. Not -”

Vane nodded again, and England laughed.

“That skinny little bugger that’s been following you around like a puppy?”

“The very same, and the name’s Jack Rackham.” The voice came from behind him. “Pleasure to meet you.”

He turned, and raised an eyebrow at the aforementioned skinny bugger standing, hand extended. The man - and he was only just barely that - was tall, but dear god, England could have snapped him apart in one go, and his black hair flopped into his face in a manner oddly reminiscent of a certain kind of bird. And speaking of birds -

“Bit of a bloody peacock, aren’t you?” he asked, and Rackham retracted the hand, pulling at the front panels of his garish calico coat to straighten it.

“Better a peacock than a drab sparrow,” Rackham answered. “Tell me - do you ever wear anything other than brown?”

England chortled.

“And mouthy to boot!” he laughed. “Good luck with this one, Charles.”

“He’s got a good head for figures and I once watched him run a man through with a broken piece of a spar. He’ll be fine,” Vane answered. “Speaking of new ships - you heard about the _Walrus_?”

England laughed.

“I’m heading out to congratulate her new captain now,” he answered. “You can come with me if you like.” 

“Nah. Tell McGraw I’m still pissed he stole Howell out from under me.”

England laughed, and Vane made an obscene gesture as he walked away.

“Fuck you, Ed!” he called. 

“Charming,” Rackham muttered, and Vane pulled a chair out, pushing it toward him with one foot.

“Fuck you too, Jack.”

***************************************************  
“So, what do you make of her?” 

James did not answer immediately. He was too busy looking over the lines of the ship in front of him, admiring the graceful line of her keel and the clean, seaman-like work that was obvious in her rigging. He’d been skeptical when Gates had turned up, ship and crew conveniently ready for a new captain, but so far, he could see no obvious flaw, either in her or the way she was kept, which spoke well of the crew.

“Ah, so it’s like that, then?” Edward England asked, laughing, and he turned at last.

“It’s difficult to say until she hits open water,” he hedged, and England shook his head.

“Admit it - she’s a beauty, and you’ve missed sailing,” he said, and James allowed a reluctant grin to cross his face.

“Sailing, yes. _You_ , no,” he insisted, and England laughed.

“Ah, there he is - the grumpy bastard whose hide I saved. Let me out of this cell, you said. I’ll be agreeable - no, really!”

“I said you'd find out if you released me,” James said, one eyebrow cocked and the corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk. “I made no promise.”

“That you didn't,” England returned affably. “Must be the hair - makes you bloody contrary. I said as much to your quartermaster, the poor bugger.” 

“I take it you’re the one that sent Gates my way?” James asked, still smiling, and England nodded.

“I may’ve put a word in his ear, aye.”

“Thank you for that,” James answered him, and England’s eyes widened.

“Did I hear that right? Did you just thank me for something? Well - it appears freedom does agree with you after all!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be menacing Africa?” James asked pointedly, and England laughed.

“I came back when I heard the Guthrie girl and your Thomas had seen to Teach and Hornigold.”

“I didn’t see your ship in the bay,” James commented, and England grinned.

“I’ve got a new lady out of my travels. You’re welcome to sail with me, by the way. I could use a consort to have my back. We’d have to get you a new name, though. No one’s going to be frightened of Captain McGraw. Something sharpish, I’m thinking - Captain Steel, maybe. You’ve got the face for it -”

“You may have aided Thomas in rescuing me from Martel but if you think I’ll turn pirate out of some kind of misguided notion of repayment -” James started, and England rolled his eyes.

“Christ,” he muttered. “Who the hell said anything about debts owed?” he asked, and James stopped. “Although while we’re on the subject, I lost track of a knife about a year ago. Know anything about it?” James colored, and England laughed.

“Well what the fuck did you expect me to do, just let you shake me until my teeth rattled?” James asked, and England’s laugh grew louder.

“And you say you’re no pirate!” he chortled. James hand went to his belt, and England waved him off. “No,” he laughed, “keep it. No sense in going about unarmed, even if you are determined to bore yourself to death guarding merchant ships and so on.”

“You’d prefer I provide you with competition?” James asked dryly, and England looked him up and down.

“Now you mention it - no!” The other man admitted. “I’ve a feeling you’d give me a run for my money.” James snorted.

“You’re damn right I would,” he answered. England grinned and then sobered abruptly.

“You realize you’re not going to have an easy time of it?” he asked. “I may not go after your cargos, and Charles might steer clear, but your young business partner’s angered Teach. He won’t take that lying down.”

“If Teach is the greatest of my worries, I’ll be grateful,” James answered truthfully, and England frowned, eyes narrowing.

“The reason you stayed in Nassau that you’re so bloody secretive about?” he asked, and James shot him a look.

“Mind your own damn business,” he answered gruffly, and England shook his head.

“One day you’ll have to tell me about it,” he said. “But not today.” He held out a hand.

“Good luck.” 

*************************************************  
_September, 1707:_

_Admiral Lawrence Norrington to Captain James McGraw of the Walrus, New Providence Island:_

_Captain McGraw,_

_I write to congratulate you on your new venture. I am including with this letter a set of documents that will allow you and your business partners to trade as legitimate businessmen under the aegis of her Majesty, Queen Anne I. I confess - when I first heard you were planning on conducting your business out of Nassau, I did not believe you would last so much as a month. It is to your credit that you have once again proven me wrong, although I remain uncertain how you have managed to turn a profit off of the businesses you list as properties of Lord Hamilton. Full congratulations are in order for the ousting of Captain Teach from the island - one day you will have to tell me how it was accomplished, since the reports I have received make the outlandish claim that it was done with no bloodshed whatsoever and that a woman named Netta is now running half the businesses on the island with the aid of a teenaged girl. I must say, that seems unlikely. Likewise, I would very much like to know how you convinced a crew of hardened pirates to turn their hand to protecting merchant ships instead of raiding them. I am sure the tale is as fascinating as it is utterly bloody impossible, much like the rest of your accomplishments since leaving England._

_On a more serious note, please pass my compliments along to Lord Hamilton, and advise him that the undertaking we discussed when last we spoke is still under way. I regret to say that I have made considerably less progress from where I sit than you seem to have done. Mr. Harris and Captain Jeffries send their regards, which I have included with this letter._

_With High Hopes for Future Success,_

_Admiral Lawrence Norrington_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_October 31st, 1707:_

_James,_

_I write this in the hopes that you will receive it in time to guard yourself. He is making a move. I cannot block him this time - the cards are stacked against us, as they always are when I attempt to move against the loathsome toad. He has found a way to declare all goods coming from your businesses his rightful property, given his current status as the Lord Proprietor. Beware, James - he has convinced some of the Sea Lords to help him, and while I can delay and divert some ships if I make enough noise about the war, I cannot stop him entirely. I beg you, Son - I know I cannot ask you not to fight this, but do not give him an excuse to make you a wanted man. You do not need to be declared a pirate on top of it all._

_Hennessey_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The last chapter! And I have to say - I am so grateful to everyone that has reviewed, left kudos, or just read this - you've all given me reasons to keep posting, and I'm happy to say that a sequel is in the works! I'll be posting it when I've written and edited it approximately ten thousand times, so it may take a while, but the first chapter has been started and the next three have been outlined, so it's well on its way! I might be adding some deleted scenes to this at some point - I've got at least one written and I expect a few others will present themselves, so I'll either give them their own side fic or add them as appendices to this one. As usual, comments are loved, appreciated, and answered as soon as possible, and if you want to find me on tumblr to squee about Black Sails, I'm at flintsredhair.tumblr.com!


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